


Inglorious Servitude

by catie8



Series: Bound Together Series [2]
Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: Alternate Universe, Catching Fire, F/F, F/M, M/M, Major Character(s), Multi, Quarter Quell, Romance, Victory Tour
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-06-03
Updated: 2014-11-30
Packaged: 2017-11-06 16:52:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 36
Words: 86,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/421142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/catie8/pseuds/catie8
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel to /Bound Together/, /Inglorious Servitude/ picks up where /BT/ left off: a stalemate between Katniss and Cato with a growing need for their romance to develop to prevent the districts from uprising.  With their Victory Tour and Quarter Quell rapidly approaching, Katniss and Cato must find a way to get past their misgivings soon, or risk their families' lives as well as their own.</p><p>I do not own the Hunger Games, but have taken Suzanne Collins' original idea and derived the following contents from her work.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Part I**

_“Thus saying, from her husband’s hand her hand / Soft she withdrew, and, like a Wood-Nymph light, / Oread, or Dryad, or of Delia’s train, / Betook her to the groves; But Delia’s self / In gait surpass’d, and Goddess-like deport, / Though not as she with bow and quiver arm’d”_ ( _Paradise Lost_ , IX.385-90).

I kick at a rock with all of my effort, expecting it to go flying along the dirt path that leads toward the woods.  It refuses to budge. When my foot makes contact, my toe rams against the stone, and I begin swearing – the blasted thing had a much larger portion of its body concealed under the dirt, a veritable iceberg of granite lodged in the ground.  My toe throbs in my boot, which is already slightly too small and unforgiving.  Shoes made in the Capitol are designed for looks, not comfort.  Now, what began as a purposeful movement to vent my frustrations comes back many times over with a vengeance. I glare at the unmoving stone, hopping on one foot and mentally listing all of the foulest words I had heard over the years.  Living in the Seam, trading in the Hob, then working with Cato as he trained to be a volunteer tribute, I know some whoppers.  I can already tell – today isn’t going to go well.

I continue to curse fluently as I limp forward, knowing that this will slow down my progress hunting today.  Since winning the Hunger Games several months ago, I’ve been much better fed than before, but some items are still difficult to come by – fresh meat being one.  Over the past few months, it’s difficult for everyone – even for people with ready money – to buy meat at the butcher.  Good nutrition is almost impossible as it is in District 12, but everyone in the Seam is already struggling, and, with winter approaching, my mother keeps reminding me that we are a month away from outbreaks of influenza, chilblains, and scurvy.  Children’s bellies will bloat in hunger, teeth will loosen, and money will only buy a mess of grain with enough calories to keep the pain sharp when the food’s gone.

Years of habit make me stop at the fence that divides District 12 from the outside world, as I listen for the hum of electrical current.  It’s silent as usual, and I slip through quickly.  Bringing home two victors at the last Hunger Games has not bought District 12 any more electricity than before.

The forest is an escape.  Trills of chirping birds, the whispers of the breeze through branches, the smell of damp leaves and moss. The colors and scents are heaven after the oppressive grey homes and coal fumes of town.  Over the past months, I have been avoiding everyone in town, venturing to the Hob only when I needed to trade and otherwise staying to myself.  There were just too many questions after the Games.  Too many watchful eyes.  Not enough explanations or, rather, excuses for what happened. 

Of course, I continue to make my obligatory appearances with Cato.  He comes to my house for dinner once a week, where he chats kindly with my mother and Prim.  We walk through town holding hands as we discuss inanities, and we make sure to kiss chastely at least once within public view.  I have my mother to thank for our restraint – during one interview she complained that neither Cato nor I were old enough to be in a serious relationship.  I blush in embarrassment, remembering once again precisely how many boundaries we had crossed while in the Capitol.

I arrive at the hollow log that holds my bow and arrows, as well as a sharp hunting knife that I had traded for once I returned from the Games.  I knew it was extremely valuable when I saw it in the Hob at old Ruth’s table; I also knew it was extremely illegal. Better that Ruth had money for food than something that would get her arrested. Weapons are under even closer watch now than before – it seems like President Snow has incrementally increased our Peacekeeper force with each passing day… as though he could sneak something like that up on us.  The anonymity of identical uniforms can never overcome the constant feeling of being watched by strangers.  A hunting knife was a practically death sentence, even before security tightened.  After all, if we’re not supposed to hunt, then we definitely shouldn’t have the tools to hunt with.

The air remains cool among the trees as the sun continues to rise. Arrow nocked in my bow, I tread quietly through the forest and check my snares.  I set up quite a few that I learned from the trainer at the Capitol, whose skill with snares far outstripped my own.  I smile ruefully at the thought that they have enabled my poaching unintentionally.  I find several squirrels and a rabbit, end their lives quickly, then re-set the traps.  With any luck, the lines will be filled again tomorrow.

I continue through the woods and manage to shoot a fat wild turkey – that ought to feed a family for a week between the meat and the bones for broth.  I take care to reuse my arrows and clean them carefully.  The barbed-tipped arrows I was sent in the arena were more of a renewable resource than the few arrows I own – just as precious, but paid for in the appearance of affection.  Affection that was costly, but – I thought at the time – worth the price.  Not anymore.  The images of Cato lifting Clove from the ground in the moonlight, the splatter of her blood across his face, my arrow lodged in her temple – each flashes in still shots through my mind.  I shudder and gently place the homemade arrow into my quiver.  Apparently the ghost of the Games can follow me even here.

I change course to head toward the meadow, hoping to clear the chaos from my mind.  The flowers have faded, but the tall grasses sway gently in the breeze and ripple in waves. Taking a deep breath of the sweet scent, I toss my game bag over a tree branch – out of the reach of any serious predators – and head out into the warmth.  I close my eyes and spread my arms, absorbing the heat and seeing the beautiful peach color of the sun through my eyelids. I lie down on my back in the deep grass and chew on a stalk.  I will sleep to come over me. There’s no one to scare out here with my screams.

More intent on my peaceful meditations than my surroundings, the boot that connects with my side comes as a painful shock. Cato collapses over me, tripping over my reposed form and falling hard on his arms, crashing onto my torso.  The wind is knocked out of me, and I gasp to catch my breath.

“Shit, Katniss!”  He shouts in frustration as he picks himself up and examines his knees for grass stains.  “What the hell are you doing here?”

I touch my ribs gingerly, checking for sore spots and wincing as I feel a bump forming under my skin.  “I could ask you the same question.”

“I need to beat the hell out of something,” he gestures to the sword strapped to his back.

It’s all I can do to not jump to my feet and run away.  __

“You?” he prompts.

“Hunting.  Thinking about sleeping.”  It’s the most conversation we’ve had in private since we returned from the Games.

“I know what you mean.”  Cato sits down next to me, then examines his sleeves where he fell. I can see the blue circles under his eyes and the wary look on his face.  “I haven’t slept much either.” He pauses for a moment.  “What do you see?  In your dreams, I mean.”

Well, I know that they begin with Cato and me in my bedroom the night of our interview with Caesar, but I’ll be damned if I tell him that.  A lump rises in my throat.  “Memories from the arena.  You know.” 

“Yup.  Same here.”  He squints off into the distance.  “I don’t suppose you want to spar with me?”

“No!” The word is out of my mouth before I can stop it, and far louder than necessary.  Cato’s shock registers on his face.  “I mean, no thanks.  It’s just…  I need to trade my hunt and I’ve been out here too long anyway and Prim wanted to do something and…” I see Cato’s eyebrow rise at my list of ridiculous excuses to avoid fighting with him – something we used to do every day before we volunteered for the Games.  Neither of us had been out here together since.  My voice drops.  “I can’t spar with you anymore.  It’s just too… much.  Too much for me.”

“Too much what?” I can hear the anger starting to rise in his voice. “Do you think I’m going to hurt you?”  He stands up quickly and glares down at me. “Or what? Fuck you?”

“It’s not that,” I protest.  Well, it’s partly that – the hurt.  But more I’m afraid of the physical proximity. Us here, alone – it could be both pain and pleasure, and I’m not prepared for either of them.  Nor can I trust Cato to distinguish between the two. 

“Look, Katniss.  Snow has threatened us both.  You know we’re only doing the minimum to keep everyone off our backs, but unless you want to be turned into a Capitol whore, we’ve got to do a better job with this.  What is your problem?  We both know there’s something there.  I know that night in your bedroom was important.  And now you won’t even talk to me when our lives – not to mention _my_ family’s and your family’s lives – are on the line?”

I rise and brush off the seat of my pants, then bend to gather my bow and quiver.  “The question wasn’t ever if there was something there for me.  Whatever that is.  I wouldn’t have done anything with you if I hadn’t felt something.  But now all I know is pain and fear and distrust. And you know what? You taught me quite a bit about those yourself.”

Cato’s eyes narrow as he seethes at me.  “Oh fuck you, Katniss.  You think you’re so much better than I am? You killed. You lied.  You kept secrets.  You never told me you loved me. At least I had the courtesy to tell you,” he adds sarcastically.  “I saved your life!  You really think I would hurt you? What about you actually hurting me?  Even leaving aside the possibility that you not getting your shit together could mean I have to suck every cock in the Capitol, you are completely fucking selfish.”  He turns on his heel and stalks into the forest, drawing his sword out of its sheath over his shoulder.

I feel the tears prickle in my eyes and jump as I hear the steel of his sword bite into a tree trunk.  My knees give out underneath me and I fall inelegantly to the ground. Cato, the little boy I knew who practiced lunges in the forest and taught me how to survive, was still Cato.  And I did survive.  Through all of it.  Even the one thing that I never expected to survive and took as a death sentence: the Games. When did I start expecting him to be something he wasn’t? What about what he had done was inconsistent with that agenda?

I lean forward on my elbows, rubbing my temples with my fingers.  Well, he hadn’t told me about his plan to join up with the career pack.  Sometimes he’s scary.  Violent.  And omits the truth about that violence rather than being honest with me.  He doesn’t always trust me with the truth, either. 

 _That’s it_ , I think to myself.  If this – _whatever ‘this’ is_ , I add mentally –is going to work at all, we are going to need to actually tell the truth.  And I have to make sure that Cato knows I’m serious about it. 


	2. Chapter 2

“ _Hee on Eve / Began to cast lascivious Eyes, she him / As wantonly repaid; in Lust they burne: / Till Adam thus ‘gan Eve to dalliance move_ ” ( _Paradise Lost_ , IX.1013-16)

I pad silently out of the meadow, stealthily pursuing Cato – he’s left a wide enough path through the grasses that it’s not difficult at all.  I hear him hacking away at a tree with his sword, so I slow my pace and sweep around his position to come in from a different direction.  As I move closer to him, I watch for a moment.

Cato takes one last swipe at the tree and tosses his sword aside with a clang.  His shirt back is soaked with sweat already, muscles rippling with tension, arms akimbo as he pants with the exertion.  I tread silently, getting closer, until I’m close enough to wrap my arms around his waist from behind.

He grabs my left wrist and whips around, my arm twisted uncomfortably against his chest.  “Do you honestly think that after this many years of working together that I wouldn’t hear you coming?”

I smirk, then ram my foot down on his instep and land an elbow in his chest.  Cato shoots backward in surprise, smiling with the knowledge that the battle is on.  I dodge his next hit, a palm-out shot to my shoulder designed to floor me, bobbing underneath his next jab and shoving my shoulder into his midsection.  We land on the ground in a heap of limbs and start to battle for control.  Cato quickly pins my waist between his knees and starts to grab for my hands. 

I’m starting to feel more desperate and buck my hips against him.  I can feel desire building as I press against him – no! Not now! My legs fly up against his back and I manage to hook a foot under his shoulder.  Cato’s eyes widen in surprise as he swears, “Shit!”  At that moment, I know I have him – he rolls to the left to escape my leg, only to lose position on top.  Cato’s always had the size advantage over the years, so I have had to learn where to make my hits count, where to hold him down.

Unfortunately, he knows what I know.  Better than I do, in fact, because he’s had to fight me for so long.  He grabs my braid – a dirty move given that I’ve never gone for his more vulnerable parts – which yanks my head back and exposes my throat.  I pull my knees up to my chest and shove against his abdomen, which shoots him out and slams his back into a tree trunk.  He grunts in pain, then folds himself in a crouch. 

I pull myself into a similar stance, low to the ground and ready to run, as he launches himself at me.  We collide, banging chin against forehead, shoulder against sternum, and crash to the ground again. Enough’s enough.  It’s time to fight the way I should have been fighting all along – I yank hard and twist one of his nipples with my knuckles, and he yelps in pain. Digging his fingers into my shoulder, we fall together and I plant an arm over his throat as I use my other hand to hold his face still.  We both know that in a fight, he’d be dead. 

His eyes have a panic in them I haven’t seen before when I’ve won, so I know I have to either let him go or start talking.  “I have to tell you something, and I want you to listen carefully. Do you understand?" He nods. "You asked what I dream about. Every night, I dream of you killing those other tributes – the ones in the bloodbath.  You are smiling, relishing it, and more alive than you have ever been.  And then, you tell me you love me when you’re dripping with blood.”

“Okay,” he grunts. “Can you let me up?”

“No.  I want you to listen. I do have feelings for you.  I didn’t know how to participate in the circus you created in the Capitol because I didn’t know it was real.  Because everything that I did, and could have, and _do_ feel for you is bloodied with what happened in the arena.  And tainted even more with people watching.  I was, and am, afraid that we can never be what we ought to have been – Snow’s threat will always be there.”

He starts to open his mouth to talk, and I tighten my grip on his jaw. “Stop.” Cato stills under my arm. “You scare me. Your strength scares me.  And what seems like your complete lack of conscience about this whole thing scares me.”  I pause as my voice catches.  “What scares me even more is that I did it too.  With your help.”

Cato closes his eyes and reopens them slowly. He waits patiently for me to speak.

“I’m going to need to know things.  Things that I ought to have known before all of this happened.  And the only way that this thing between you and me is going to work is if we are completely and totally honest with each other.  No secrets.  No secret plans, no sneaking around making strategies with other people. Including Haymitch. Agreed?”

Cato nods once in agreement. I release him and scoot off to the side. He rubs his throat thoughtfully as he sits up.  “You’ve got quite a grip, y’know?”

“I didn’t.  But then again, I’ve never had to do that to myself.”

He chuckles and drapes his arms over his legs.  “So what do you want to know?”

I sit for a moment.  “What do you really dream about?  You know, the nights you actually do sleep?”

A corner of his mouth quirks up as he glances over at me. “Are you sure you really want to know?”

“Yeah.”

“Usually, it’s when we’re out in the grasslands. I’m underneath Thresh and he’s got his hands around my throat.” I blanch at the memory of it, and understand the panic he felt moments ago when I pinned him.  “I blink and suddenly his head isn’t there.  Everything is red.  The blood flows into my mouth and I can taste it…” he grinds his hands together. “I can taste it when I wake up.” 

I never imagined Thresh’s death from his perspective. It’s always been me holding the scythe, his head spinning into the grass illuminated by the light.  That’s haunted me plenty, but I never thought it would be difficult for Cato. “Why don’t you scream? When you wake up, I mean.”

“I can’t.  I can’t even open my mouth.  In my dream, I know I’ll drown on the blood.  I’ll drink it, inhale it into my lungs.  I just lay there, not moving, barely breathing, until I can snap out of it.”

“Oh.”  It’s the closest I’ve ever heard Cato come to saying he’s afraid.  I have no idea what to say. I wish I weren’t so bad with words.  I crawl over and wrap my arms around him. “I’m sorry.  It’s my fault,” I murmur into his shoulder, tears prickling uncomfortably.

“Why would that be your fault?  You saved my life.”

“Because I said we should still go.  Remember?  The gamemakers kept the sun out and I said we should go anyway.”

Cato shrugs out of my arms and turns toward me.  “You blame yourself for that? Kat,” he gathers my hands in his. “If you hadn’t done it, someone else would have.  Or we would both be dead.  Either way, we did what we did to survive.  Just like we always have.  Right?”

I rub my eyes with my sleeve.  “Well,” I jump up and try to sound more contained. “That’s enough sharing for today.”

“Oh, I don’t think so,” Cato says, blue eyes glinting mischievously.  He yanks me down into his lap and draws my head toward his.  “Admit it,” he smirks arrogantly. “You’ve been missing me.”  Cato meets my lips with a searing kiss, drawing my tongue out of my mouth and pressing me to his chest.  My eyes close in pleasure as spots of blue and red dance across my vision.  I dig my nails into his shirt, ripping the fabric and exposing his skin.

Cato pulls my jacket off and we wrestle out of the rest of our clothing.  We fit ourselves together and rapidly come to climax, finding the lost joys that our bodies could bring and forgetting the violence they were capable of. As the final shudders tear through our bodies, I rest my forehead against Cato’s neck, nestling my nose in the hollow at the base of his throat.  He wraps his arms around me protectively and makes a little noise of contentment.

“What?”

He laughs.  “Now _that_ is what I imagined our first time would be like.”

I ball up a fist and smack his shoulder. “You pervert.  You’d been imagining it?  For how long?”

“Pretty much once I figured out that my dick wasn’t just for pissing out of.”  I smack him again and try to control my giggles. Once our laughter subsides, he tucks a finger under my chin.  “I promised you honesty. Really, I’ve known it was you since I handed you that knife in the forest that day we met.”

My initiation into violence. 

“You were so strong.  Unafraid of doing what needed to be done,” Cato continues, then grins.  “Well, either that or when you fell on your butt.”  I glower at him.  “What? The look on your face was priceless! How could I not love you?”

I pull out of his arms and start to get dressed.  “You,” I begin as I pull my shirt on over my head, “are a complete and total idiot.”

Cato peeks at me through the hole I tore in his shirt.  “But a handsome idiot, right?”

I roll my eyes and indulge him patiently. “Yes.  A handsome idiot.”  I smack him on the rear before he can pull up his pants and he lets out a yelp.

“Easy on the goods!  I had a pine cone stuck there for the last fifteen minutes!” 

We finish dressing and gather our weapons, teasing each other about being covered in the floral evidence of our lovemaking – dirt, twigs, leaves, and grass. I need to return to the Hob and give away my game, then head home with some new bandages and herbs for my mother. As we head to the tree where I stored my game, I remember what the next months hold for us: the Victory Tour and another reaping with new tributes. This year is the Quarter Quell, and – as with every Quarter Quell – there will undoubtedly be some horrible twist. 

“So,” I begin. “Business as usual for us?”

“Kat, do you really think that the past weeks have been good enough? To convince Snow, I mean?”

I avert my eyes in shame.  Simply put, I hadn’t been doing enough to protect us.  It still might not be enough. “Not really.  I’m sure we’ll hear soon enough if it’s not.”

We shimmy under the fence and head our separate ways – me to the Hob, and Cato to visit his parents.  Cato’s never been able to trade in the Hob the way that I have been, being the mayor’s son and all, nor has he had a reason to go.  With most luxuries that money can buy from the merchants, he’s had no reason to trade.  

I distribute the meat to traders who I know are suffering – either out of work miners with families to feed or parents whose children are sick – taking as little from them as possible.  I give them an encouraging word and tell them to go see my mother when they get the chance.  I track down Greasy Sae, the woman who used to dispose of the leftovers from my hunting in her stews, for a bowl of soup.

“I’ve been missing your beef, Katniss,” she says with a wink. We both know she would always call my wild dogs “beef” when served in a bowl – it all tastes the same when you don’t get to eat much, really.  I sit down next to Darius, one of the original Peacekeepers from before the Games who is far less strict than the new arrivals.

“Hey there, Katniss,” he waggles his eyebrows at me. “You’ve got something in your hair.”  He pulls a leaf out of my braid, then gives it a tug.  “Have you been behaving well?”

I feel a self-satisfied grin spread across my face.  “I’m feeling very well.”

Darius turns and leans his elbow on the counter as he gives me a leer.  “That’s not really the same thing, is it?”  He takes a bite out of his roll.  “In fact, those two things rarely go together, now, do they?”

I smirk into my bowl and continue eating.  I wipe the remaining gravy out of the bowl, then hand it back to Greasy Sae.  “I’ll see you tomorrow, Sae!”  I wave at Darius, “’Bye, Darius!”

“You behave, Katniss,” he calls, fluttering his fingers at me.

I have a skip in my step as I head home.  Lightly tripping up the porch, I find my mother standing by the front door.  “Katniss, dear,” she starts.  Her brow is furrowed in worry.  “There’s someone here to see you.”

“Is it Cato?  Because I saw him earlier.  Everything’s going to be okay, Ma.” I pat her on the shoulder and try to move past her.

My mother wrings her hands and turns to follow me, “No, dear. It’s –”  

I am stopped by a uniformed Peacekeeper. “Miss Everdeen? Please come this way.”  I am escorted into my own dining room, where I am greeted by the rancid smell of blood and roses, and President Coriolanus Snow.

“Good afternoon, Miss Everdeen.  How are you?”


	3. Chapter 3

_“So spake the Enemie of Mankind, enclos’d / In Serpent, Inmate bad, and toward Eve / Address’d his way._ ” ( _Paradise Lost_ IX.494-96)

 

“Hello, sir.”  I’m surprised my voice sounds so calm. Snow smiles politely at me from his seat, his perfectly manicured hands steepled as if at prayer.

“It’s so lovely to see you again.  Won’t you please sit down?”  He gestures toward a chair across from him at the dining table.

“Yes. Thank you.”  After all, it’s his house more than mine.

The peacekeeper knocks on the door and opens it a few inches, clearly afraid to disturb our meeting.  “Sir, Mrs. Everdeen would like to serve tea.”

“That would be wonderful.  Can it wait just a few minutes?”

“Yes, sir.”  The peacekeeper shuts the door quietly.

Snow turns to back me.  “I think it would be expedient for us to be perfectly honest with each other, Miss Everdeen.  Don’t you agree?”

“Yes.  I believe it would be much easier that way,” I respond without emotion – not even a quaver in my voice. 

“Well, Miss Everdeen, my meeting with you and Mr. Undersee doesn’t seem to have had quite the effect that I wanted.  There are individuals across Panem that do not see your affections toward Mr. Undersee as genuine, and they are beginning to suspect that it really is possible to question the benevolence of the Capitol.  I am rather concerned that you did not take our agenda seriously.”  I can’t respond.  Not after today.  Not after what I did.  What Cato and I did. 

He continues.  “Have you been giving our project your fullest attention over the past few months?”

“No, sir.”

“You see, Miss Everdeen, it is precisely this negligence that makes me think that you need to fully understand what our agreement is and everything that you stand to lose should things not go as planned.”

“I consider myself warned, sir.” 

“Oh, no. My dear, you don’t seem to realize that you have already been warned.  Remember our little conversation several months ago?  I am going to help you understand.”  Snow stands and gives me a grandfatherly smile that doesn’t quite reach his glittering serpentine eyes – the one I have seen so many times on television. My heart rate picks up and I feel myself begin to breathe more quickly.  I continue to inhale the scent of blood and roses.

“Prim?” I gasp.

“Nothing like that, Miss Everdeen.  What do you think we are?  Savages?  You will receive further instructions on this matter when you arrive at the Capitol at the end of your Victory Tour. Do you have any questions?”

“No, sir.”

“Well, then.  Shall we have some tea with your lovely mother and sister?”

“That would be very nice, sir.”

Snow stays and chats for thirty minutes, all the while complimenting my mother profusely on her lovely home and engaging Prim with compliments and kindnesses.  Before he leaves, Snow hands her a bag of brightly colored sweets from the Capitol.  “Don’t eat those all at once, dear.  They’ll make you sick!”  He pats her head and turns to me.  “I am very excited to see how you are received on your Victory Tour, my dear Miss Everdeen.  Keep up the marvelous work.”  With that, he steps off the porch and disappears out of the Victor’s Village.

I immediately turn to the edge of the stoop and vomit.

***

After being fussed over by my mother and Prim for the next twenty minutes, I escape their ministrations and sprint to Haymitch’s house. Old alcohol fumes hit me as I slam the door open.  Haymitch is sitting at his table, a half-empty bottle sitting open and flipping cards into a hat. 

“How was the meet and greet, sweetheart?”  He glances up as he takes a drink.  “Oh, no.  I’ve seen that look before.  I’m not giving you any of my booze.  You can hunt Ripper down and buy some for yourself.”

“Your house stinks, Haymitch.”

“I know.  I live here, after all.”

“Can we get some fresh air?  You’re turning all pasty and gross.”  I tap my ear, hoping he’d understand that I don’t want to be overheard.

“Fine,” Haymitch complains with a resigned exhale, shoving his chair back with a screech.

We walk out of Haymitch’s house and meander along a dirt path that heads toward the Seam. Now that we’re out here, I don’t even know how to start the conversation.  The only thing maintaining my self-control is not talking about this.  If I said my fate out loud, I would dissolve.

“What did he want?” Haymitch is the one with the guts, obviously.

“He is going to help me understand why I need to do what I’m told.”

Haymitch inhales noisily and flattens his lips into a grim line.  “You know what that means, don’t you?

I can’t hold back the tears anymore and double over in a choked sob.  “Yes,” I barely can get out the word as I fall to my knees.

Haymitch swims in front of my eyes with a look that resembles pity on his face. He places a gentle hand on my shoulder. “Are you going to tell him?"

“Would you?” I manage to get out.

“I don’t know.”  Somehow, Haymitch’s uncertainty is comforting.  For once, the man doesn’t know what to do – it justifies that I’m right to react so badly. I regain control and wipe my nose on the back of my hand. 

When I spoke to Cato about honesty this morning, I never anticipated having to keep this sort of secret from him.  What would he do if he knew?  Go on a violent tear?  Kill someone?  What would he do if he didn’t know?  Well, technically nothing.  And he wouldn’t have to find out, right? 

Haymitch breaks my silent reverie. “Would you want to know if it were him?”

That seals it. “No,” I say firmly.  “I would never want to know.”  Why disturb the fantasy, after all?  It would only make everything more difficult.  I can take it.

“Okay, then.”  Haymitch helps me up, thankfully not inquiring into the thought processes behind my decision.  “You’ve had experiences with Cato before.” This isn’t a question.  Marvelous.  Apparently everyone knows.

I blush up to my ears. “Yes,” I answer curtly.

“Good.  Then I don’t need to explain the mechanics.  That would be embarrassing for both of us, sweetheart.  Have you been taking the vitamins from the Capitol?”

“What vitamins from the Capitol?”

“The ones that the doctors send all of the victors every month.  Haven’t you been getting those?”

“No.  Or if I have, I haven’t been taking them.  Maybe my mother has been giving them to other families who need them more.”

“Shit.” 

“What?  What’s wrong?  They’re just stupid vitamins.”

“They contain a hormone to suppress reproduction and protect against sexual disease.  Some of those Capitol folks are dirty birds.” 

Shit, indeed.  “Well, it’s not like we do it all the time, just…” I have to take a deep breath to continue my sentence.  This is humiliating.  “Just that once in the Capitol and once… um, earlier today.”

“Good.  You need to go talk to your mother and get back on those vitamins as soon as possible.  Even if nothing really happens in the Capitol, you’re going to need those.”  This is as fatherly as Haymitch has ever been toward me.

“But what about today?  I mean, there’s no way I could be… you know?” I feel sick again, thinking of accidentally bringing a child into the world because I was too much of a thoughtless teenager to protect myself.

Haymitch cocks an eyebrow at me.  “We’ll wait and see if it becomes a problem. You’re healthier now, so it’s a possibility.”

“Well, what would I do in that case?”

“Short of getting sucker punched in an important place, I don’t know.  I’ve never been knocked up, obviously.”  He pats the round belly that protrudes from his waistband and belches softly.  “Well, maybe not so obviously.  But it’s never been a problem for me.  As a man.  You know what I mean.”  He squints back at the lights from the Seam.  “It’s getting a little late.  Time to get back.  Say hi to your ma for me.”

“Sure.”  There will be _words_ with my mother when I get home.  I need someone to blame for this shit show, and she’s an easy enough target at this point.

I jog back to the house and head inside, throwing my jacket into the hall closet and banging through the kitchen door.  Once inside, I see her helping Prim cut a potato, an endearing image of mother and daughter that I never experienced myself.   My hand goes to my stomach. _I could be a mother_.  No, I command myself. Focus, Katniss.




“Ma, have I been getting vitamins from the Capitol over the past few months?”

“Hm?” She raises her head from her task.  “Oh, yes.  I’ve been giving them to the mothers in the Seam who have had too many children already.  I figured that they needed them more than you.”

Well, until recently that was true.  Hardly a time for confessions, I lie smoothly. “One thing that President Snow told me is that I should be taking them.  Apparently it’s something that Victors have to do to help our stamina for the Victory Tour – we don’t get much sleep and are exposed to a lot of germs.”

“Really?  But they’re a form of birth control.  I had no idea they had such medicinal properties,” she says with interest as she returns to her work with Prim.  “I wish I had known or I would have given them to more people. I’ll get them for you, then. Do you want to take one with dinner?”

“Does it matter when I take them?”

“You need to take them at the same time every day, dear.  Otherwise, they won’t work.”

“Oh.”  I had no idea… I hope I can remember. “That’s fine.  I’m going upstairs for a minute.  Can you let me know when dinner is ready?”

“Sure.”  She examines my face carefully.  “Are you quite all right, dear?  It’s been quite the day, and you don’t look well.”

This is not the time for my mother to develop some sort of maternal intuition. “I’m fine, Ma.” 

I turn to leave the kitchen, but not before I hear Prim chirp, “Ma, can I have some of the candy President Snow brought me after dinner?”

“Of course.”

I bite my lip hard and taste blood.  The Capitol can dole out so much pleasure at the expense of so much pain. I scurry upstairs and turned on the light.  Looking out the window, I see a light on in one of Cato’s bedrooms.  I immediately shut my light off and close the curtains.  I lie on my soft bed and stare at the ceiling.  It’s amazing – this morning I was in the same position out in the meadow, feeling peaceful.  Then reconciling with Cato. Now I'm breaking every promise I forced him to make to me.

Tomorrow has got to be better.


	4. Chapter 4

_“what enemie / Late falln himself from Heav'n, is plotting now / The fall of others from like state of bliss; / By violence, no, for that shall withstood; But by deceit and lies.”_ ( _Paradise Lost_ V.239-43)

 

I am awoken by shaking – as per usual for most nights – but unlike the many other nights where Prim’s or my mother’s face would be the first thing I see, tonight I am greeted by Cato’s concerned visage.

He gives my shoulders a good jerk.  “Kat.  It’s not real.”

I open my eyes fully and groan in frustration.  “I woke everyone up again?  You didn’t have to come over.”

“Kat, you think I couldn’t hear you screaming all those other times?  I was just afraid you were going to stab me if I tried to touch you.”

Remaining silent, I pull him down to the bed and bury my face in his chest, wiping my tears on his shirt. 

“What was it?”

“Not the usual.”  In fact, it was nothing like my usual dreams, where I see deaths – I watch as a voyeur rather than participant, seeing Cato kill.  Tonight, the violence in my dreams had nothing to do with the arena.  Everything goes back to Snow’s “reminder” to behave.  Being sold like an animal to breed.

“What do you mean?”

“You don’t want to know.”  __

“I think I'll be the judge of that.  I told you about my dreams earlier, remember?”

“Yeah, these aren’t the same.”  Technically, this is true.

“What do you mean?”  Cato’s concern shows on his face – his brow furrows, trying to calculate from my expression what’s wrong.

“Capitol nightmares.  You know – the threats from Snow.”  Also true.  _Keep it up, Katniss._

“Oh.”  Thank goodness.  Enough has been said.  Cato gathers me more securely in his arms and I feel the warmth of his body flow through my stiff limbs, loosening joints and relaxing muscles. “Do you think you can go back to sleep with me here?”

“Yeah, I think so.”  He tosses the blanket over both of us and we settle down together. 

“You realize that we can do this every night if you like?”  Cato’s words rumble in his chest, the deep bass tickling my ear. 

“That would be nice.”  Anything to dispel the nightmares that plague me.  Maybe I’ll get more than an hour of sleep a night.  “Are you sure you don’t mind? I mean, I don’t want you to go without sleep, too.”

“I wasn’t sleeping much anyway.”

“Oh.”  I nuzzle against his chest, seeking a more comfortable position. 

Cato drops a kiss in the part of my hair. “Quit squirming.  Go to sleep.”

“G’night.”

“Good night, Kat.”

***

The next morning arrives too soon.  My eyelids are heavy with sleep and crusted with the dried tears from my dispelled nightmares.  I stretch complacently, feeling a satisfying series of pops and cracks from joints that are unaccustomed to being still for so long, while the sun streams in my window and warms the sheets.

I jerk upright a moment later – Cato is gone.  But he left a note on the bedside table.

_Went for cheese buns. Didn’t want to wake you.  Back soon._

_\- C_

I slump back on the bed in relief. At least I didn’t smack him in the middle of the night or push him out of the bed accidentally. We only have a few more days together until my prep team shows up. Then, fittings and beauty treatments will precede the Victory Tour. Once I return I have to start working on my phony talent – designing dresses, courtesy of Cinna. I am determined to use the time wisely, knowing that it will all be ruined once we leave 12.

 _And once you get your “reminder” from Snow_.  I shudder, feeling immediately soiled by the thought, then bound out of bed into the shower.  Rooting around in a bathroom drawer, I find the most rigid sponge I can to scrub my body.  Between rolling around in the dirt with Cato, the horrible meeting with Snow, the dreams of whoredom, and sleeping with a sweaty male, I am absolutely filthy.  The streams of hot water help me scour my body until my skin glows pink from the heat and friction. I dig my nails into my scalp as I shampoo and pull loose hairs out, taking satisfaction in the purification of removing any excess from my form.  I even dig under my fingernails and toenails to remove the months of grime that had accumulated there under my lackadaisical grooming routine.

I finally turn off the water and wrap myself in a towel.  Steam has clouded the mirror, and I wipe it down with the side of my hand. My grey-eyed and grim reflection stares back at me, warped in the beads of streaky water and condensation.  How could anyone want this? I was a fool to think that being a victor would make everything better.  That it would save me, or save Prim.  Nothing could be further from the truth.  It’s a whole other form of slavery to the Capitol.  And what’s worse – I should feel fortunate.  Because if I’m _lucky_ , I think darkly, this will be the only time that I have to be reminded of my duty rather than having it become my entire existence.  And if I’m extraordinarily lucky, it will never happen to Cato.  I must keep him safe in all this, as well.

Gripping the edge of the counter, continue to examine the figure in the mirror – demanding to know why the person there just couldn’t have believed Cato sooner.  Why did she make it so damned difficult to see what was so obvious to everyone else?  I drop my towel to the floor and scrutinize myself.  I’m not ugly – I’ve just never cared.  Well, until the Games, I never had the opportunity to care much.  I have managed to gain some weight, which has filled out my curves and removed some of the weediness from my limbs. My clavicles no longer jut out from my shoulders.  My face has lost its sharpness, but not its haunted expression.  That’s gotten worse, in fact. I look downright unhappy. Nothing like a girl in love.  No wonder Snow is punishing me.  

I gather the towel around myself with a sigh and stoop to brush my teeth.  I take time to massage my gums and remove any last evidence of morning breath.  With that, I am the cleanest I have been since I left the Capitol. 

The closet is a whole other world of frustration.  Long garment bags have accumulated over the past months, as Cinna ships more clothes for the Victory Tour once they’re finished. I root around for something simple to wear, ultimately finding soft black pants and a hunter green shirt.  I see that Cinna has a mockingjay symbol embroidered along the cuff of one sleeve.  While I love his genius, I can’t help but feel a little annoyed by this symbol that was so unwillingly thrust upon me. 

As I dress, I hear the front door bang shut and heavy footfall – Cato must be back with the bread.  I braid my hair back quickly and hustle downstairs.  The cheese buns are best warm.  I arrive in the kitchen to see Cato opening and closing drawers angrily, rifling through their contents and, discovering nothing, knocking tools deep into the cabinets as he searches. 

“What on earth are you doing?” I ask.

Cato looks up in surprise, then his brow furrows. “Just looking for,” he slams another door shut in frustration, “a knife.  Any idea where they are?” 

I jump at the noise.  “You’re mad you couldn’t find a knife?”  I head to the knife block that’s clearly displayed on the countertop and pull out a serrated knife.  “Like this one?” I hold the handle out toward him.

“I’m not mad.”  He grabs the knife and sits down forcefully at the kitchen table, sloppily sawing away at a cheese bun and spraying crumbs across the tabletop, all the while mashing the bread flat in his hands. 

“You could have fooled me,” I respond as I dust the crumbs into my palm. “There isn’t going to be much left of that bun left if you keep going at it like that.”

Cato slams the knife down flat and tosses the bread on the table.  “It’s stupid.”

I sit silently and wait expectantly. 

He lets out a huff of breath.  “The guy at the bakery.”

“Yes?”

“He kept trying to ask about you.”

I try to think through who I know at the bakery.  I used to trade with the owner, Saren Mellark, but I hadn’t been back to the bakery since I won the Games.  Prim and my mother always do the shopping, and I do the hunting.  I give most of my kill away – there’s no need for me to go to the bakery to trade anymore.  I always figured the baker was well off - that he bought squirrels from me before I was reaped said more about his generosity than the quality of my game.

“Who is ‘he’?” I scoop up the slightly squashed cheese bun and take a small bite, then offer it to Cato.

He waves his hand in refusal. “That little shit I volunteered for.  He’s damned lucky I did – he would have been dead in minutes if I hadn’t.”  Cato grabs the bread knife and twirls it in his fingers thoughtfully, a malevolent gleam in his eye. 

I roll my eyes.  “Why does it matter if he was asking about me?  We’re ‘celebrities’, after all,” I say with a smile. “Our lives are up for public scrutiny.”

“Because it was all, ‘How are things going with you and Katniss?’ and ‘I don’t see you two together very often anymore,’ and ‘Are things okay?’… As if it’s any of his damn business!”  Cato’s fingers tighten around the knife hilt as he glares menacingly at the cheese bun in my hands.  “It’s like he was trying to figure out if we were going to break up or something. Jackass.”

At first I am shot through with worry – we couldn’t even convince the baker’s son that things are okay?  Shit.  Then, realizing the true source of Cato’s fury, I break out in laughter.  “You’ve got to be kidding me!  Are you jealous?”

Cato drags his eyes away from the cheese bun and gives me a doleful look.  “Well, what else do you expect?  I swear, half the town was… probably _is_ completely in love with you.”

I slump over on the table, howling with laughter.

“What?  Quit laughing, Kat. It’s not funny!” Cato protests. I sit up, but continue to giggle, shifting to hiccups in the process – not the right response.  “Fine then!” He yanks the cheese bun out of my hand and stuffs the entire thing in his mouth. 

“Hey!" I exclaim.  "I was going to eat that.”  Cato sits there chewing, cheeks puffed out like a bohemoth and incensed chipmunk.  I repress another giggle. Well, at least he’ll be silent for a minute.  “Seriously, though.  There’s a reason why… you know, our _time_ in the Capitol,” I say meaningfully, “was so important to me.  If I had wanted to be with anyone else, I would have been.  What’s the kid’s name?”

He swallows slowly.  “Peeta something-or-other.”

“Peeta.  Mr. Mellark’s son?  I’m sure he’s a very nice boy.  But you’ve been my best friend since I was eleven.  Much more than that since then.  Can we agree that you’re the winner in this?”

Cato’s cheeks heat up. “It’s just frustrating – it’s not like your only putting in half effort over the past few months has done a whole lot for the situation.”

I hold back a sigh, now getting to the root of the problem - and it's even more than jealousy.  I ought to have been even more demonstrative after we arrived in 12, not less.  If what I display publicly is supposedly an exaggeration of what I feel, I can see how he would be concerned about what my actual feelings are given my absence of affectionate gestures.  “I didn’t realize how much I was hurting you.  I was only thinking of –” I pause, remembering that the house is almost certainly bugged. “You know.” I raise my eyebrows and allow my eyes to move around the room, gesturing with my hand as well, indicating that we are not alone. “But aside from that, you were – and are – the only thing on my mind.”  _Well, that’s about as close to the truth as we can get._

Taking the tip of the knife between my fingers, I feel Cato’s grip slacken.  Clearly he’s walked away from the arena – and our meeting with Snow – with more than his fair share of issues, too.  I meet his eyes and see his frustration has eased into relief.

“Now, can I have another cheese bun? Preferably one you haven’t mangled with your shoddy knife work?” I ask with a wink.

“Sure.  They’re on the counter.” 

I look over at the bag near the sink, which has been completely squashed and bears a mark that suspiciously resembles the tread of a large boot.  “Are you serious?”  I ask with an exaggerated sense of resigned frustration.  “What _didn’t_ you do to this bag?”

A guilty grin steals across Cato’s face.  “Whoops."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for the kudos, comments, and hits! More updates coming soon.


	5. Chapter 5

_“So spake the Seraph Abdiel faithful found, / Among the faithless, faithful only hee; / Among innumerable false, unmov'd, / Unshak'n, unseduc'd, unterrifi'd / His Loyaltie he kept, his Love, his Zeale; / Nor number, nor example with him wrought / To swerve from truth, or change his constant mind / Though single.”_ ( _Paradise Lost_ V.896-903)

 

The next few days are heavenly, aside from the fears lurking in the back of my mind that I ought to reveal my punishment to Cato.  I begin taking my vitamins and feel more secure for doing so. We hunt, make love in the forest, and reminisce about our childhoods and particularly memorable kills.

I just can’t bring myself to tell him, though.  After I conceal the truth for several days, the fact that I fail to confess makes the prospect of starting the conversation even more difficult.  There are moments.  Moments when I think to myself, _Now. Now is the time.  He’ll understand.  He’ll share the load_.  But I don’t say anything.  _Maybe tomorrow. Maybe it will be a better time tomorrow._

But the time never comes.  Effie, Cinna, and the prep teams arrive. We are hustled into our houses and trapped there for several hours, enduring all sorts of beautification procedures.  Flavius, Octavia, and Venia shriek in despair at the state of my fingernails, split ends, and overgrown eyebrows. “How did you manage to get so dirty?” Venia demands.

Prim observes with curiosity as they rip off every inch of my body hair and pluck off any strays that escape their watchful eyes. I try my best to keep my cries of pain to a minimum – it’s not like I hadn’t experienced worse.  By mid-afternoon I am grouchy, hungry, and polished to a lovely glow.  The prep team is visibly relieved that they managed to clean me up so well given my apparently extreme levels of filth.

Effie comes tripping in on gold and black high heels, patting her festive red wig, which is laced through with gold threads.  She sees my expression of shock and fishes for compliments. “Do you like it?” Effie turns in a little circle to aid in my presumed admiration.  “It’s all for you and Cato, you know.  The fire?  The mockingjay pin?” 

I press my lips together to subdue my laughter.  “You look marvelous Effie.  I’m sure all the other escorts are dying with envy!”

“Well,” she chirps.  “Mostly they’re jealous that for my first-ever Victory Tour I have _two_ victors!  But I did see Stasia Garrus from District 2 get downright livid when she saw my fingernails.”  Effie holds them out for me to evaluate – there are ten tiny gold mockingjay symbols inlaid into the red enamel. No wonder the District 2 escort dislikes Effie. First I kill both tributes from 2, then my token becomes a fashion trend, and Effie has the gall to rub it in her face.  Snow has got to be furious.  It’s one thing to have the relationship be of public interest, but the mockingjay – a symbol of my dissent – as a fashion trend?

“Lovely,” I say simply.

“As for your schedule,” Effie continues, “you will have a public appearance this afternoon, then we will have a departure filming.  You will be arriving in District 11 tomorrow morning. Any questions?"

“No. Thank you so much for arranging it all, Effie.  I could never do this without you.” 

Effie breaks into a genuine smile.  “Cinna will be here in just a minute, dear.  He’s arranging all your lovely clothes!”

I sit patiently and close my eyes.  The house is alive with noise – I hear Prim giggling as she chats with Octavia and my mother beginning to chop vegetables for dinner. Effie and Venia gossip outside my door.  From the sounds of things, they’re complaining about how difficult it has been to get seafood.

Seafood? Really? The Capitol never wants for anything… Seafood shortages mean that District 4 must be having problems. Just as I start craning my ear to listen for any other news of shortages, Cinna opens the door quietly. I jump slightly as I’m caught eavesdropping, then throw myself out of the chair to embrace him.

“Oh, Cinna!  I’ve missed you!”  He looks exactly the same: all black clothes, cocoa skin, and light gold eyeliner.

Cinna looks slightly shocked at my affection as he steps back and holds me at arm’s length.  “Katniss, it’s wonderful to see you again.  How are you?"

“I’ve been better.”  I leave it at that.

Cinna examines my face carefully.  “I see.”

I arch an eyebrow at him skeptically.  “You do?”

His fingers tighten on my biceps, a firm reassurance that he does indeed understand the entire range of possibilities of things that could be wrong.  More than that – perhaps he even knows what is going to happen to me.  “Yes.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I’m supposed to help you make an impression, just as I always have.”  Cinna has much sharper eyes – and intuition – than I thought.  I feel my lip begin to tremble as my shoulders slump forward. 

“No tears, Katniss,” Cinna says as he wipes one away with his thumb.  “You will survive this.  I have nothing but faith in your strength.”

I take a deep breath and correct my posture, drawing shoulders back and chin up. 

“That’s my girl.  Now, let’s get you dressed. You’ll be ‘meeting’ Cato,” he pauses and suppresses a smile, “outside in about an hour.  There will be a camera crew there.  Are you ready for that?”  I smile, too.  ‘Meeting’ Cato after knowing him my entire life?  How absurd.  But it’s all in the spirit of entertainment. _And persuasion_.

I nod once in affirmation. 

“Okay, then. I’ve laid out an outfit on your bed.  Get dressed and we’ll do the final touchups.”

Once dressed, I head back downstairs for makeup and hair. My prep team crafts a natural look: soft, glowing pinks and creams with my hair a mass of bouncing, glossy curls.  Effie squeals in excitement once I emerge from the downstairs bathroom.  “Katniss, you look marvelous!  Oh, and that mockingjay on your belt?  I adore it!  I will have to get Cinna to make me one, as well.”

I look at Cinna slightly askance.  He shrugs and simply says, “They’re all the rage.”

We stand and wait at the front door, counting down the minutes until I can emerge from the front door and see Cato.  I tap my fingers nervously against the side of my dress.  Cinna reaches over and stills my fidgeting.  “You’ll see him soon,” he says, although we both know that’s not why I’m fretting.

I smile at him as we hear a knock at the door.  “It’s time!” Effie tweets.  I open the door and step out on the porch.  I look at Cato’s house and see that he’s emerged at the same time. We lock eyes – I feel Effie prod me in the back. Completely unnecessary!  I leap off the porch at a sprint, as does Cato.  We collide together much as we did the night of our interview with Caesar.  We lock in a passionate kiss.  Cato buries his face in my hair as he lifts me off the ground.  He smells like the forest – so masculine and strong.  It’s not a heavy floral scent from the Capitol.  It’s _him_.

I feel as though the whole thing is happening in slow motion – that hours have passed with our lips, hands, and faces together.  This is what it means for to be real.  _But it’s not real._   The world is watching.

Cato reluctantly sets me down after a few long moments and stands back.  He looks me up and down appraisingly.  “Not bad, Everdeen,” he says with a grin.

I take in what’s Cato’s wearing.  A brown jacket made of the same fabric as my dress with a white cotton shirt.  He’s wearing denim pants, fastened with a belt that matches my own, complete with gold mockingjay buckle.  “Not bad yourself, Undersee.  I gather that Cinna and Portia have been collaborating again.”

“You know,” Cato says conspiratorially in a stage whisper, “I think that they’re a couple.”

“No!” I feign shock.  “Really?”

“Yes.  We’ll have to get all the gossip from Effie.”

Gossip? The shortages.  I make a mental note to talk to Cato about that later.  Maybe even Haymitch would know something.  He has friends in the Capitol – other former victors.  No sooner does the thought come to my mind than Haymitch tumbles out of his house, releasing the smell of stale liquor as empty bottles roll down his porch steps. 

I roll my eyes. “Lovely.”

Cato glances over his shoulder and lets out a low chuckle. “Let’s just keep walking to the Justice Building.  Haymitch and the others will catch up.”

Rather than hold hands, I hold onto Cato’s elbow.  I know the game now – I need to appear fragile and delicate; he must be strong and masculine.  Cato looks down in surprise, then places a hand on top of mine.  We engage in light conversation, being sure to laugh regularly.  Our topics are things we would never discuss alone – the color of the cakes in a window are a surprisingly lovely shade of peachy orange, the weather over the past few weeks, and – as a favor to her – Effie’s fascinating new wig is and how I envy her nails.  Every sentence will be heard in the Capitol, superficial or not.

We gather in front of the justice building along with a sizeable crowd, where Cato’s father, Mayor Undersee, stands on the stage waiting to bid us farewell.  Cato’s mother, Kara, is seated on the stage.  She plays with a white handkerchief, bothering it between her fingers as she darts her vision between Cato and me.  We ascend the stairs and greet them, then sit.  Cato’s father begins his speech, in which he congratulates us once again on our victory and some other blather.  I rapidly tune out. 

Mrs. Undersee nudges me with her elbow, and I turn to look at her.  I see she has spread her handkerchief across her knee, and embroidered into the fabric with gold thread is a mockingjay.  I meet her eyes, and she gives me a steely look.

Cato’s father finishes his speech and draws each of us in for an embrace. I hug Cato’s mother as well and hear her whisper quietly in my ear, “Set us free, mockingjay.”

I try not to let the shock register on my face as I hold her.  For once, I know exactly what to say. “Yes. But at what cost?” I murmur.  We step back and hold each other at elbow’s length.

She examines my face carefully.  “It will be worth it,” she finally says at full volume.

Cato’s expression is inscrutable.  I smile at him and reach out for his hand, which grasps mine just a little too tightly for comfort.  We turn and wave to the audience, then proceed into the Justice Building.  We say our goodbyes to our families and retreat to the train.

I continue waving as we pull away from the station, only vaguely able to imagine what will come. I do indeed hope it’s worth it.


	6. Chapter 6

_“for what peace will be giv’n / To us enslaved, but custody severe, / And stripes and arbitrary punishment / Inflicted? And what peace can we return, / But to our power hostility and hate, / Untamed reluctance, and revenge though slow, / Yet ever plotting how the Conqu’ror least / May reap his conquest, and may least rejoice / In doing what we most in suff’ring feel?”_ ( _Paradise Lost_ II.332-40)

 

The dinner hour approaches once we resettle in our train compartments.  I make no attempt to pretend that Cato and I aren’t sharing a bed.  When Effie approaches with concern on her face, I hold up a palm and simply say, “It’s easier for everyone this way.  Trust me.”

For once, Effie is silenced on matters of decorum and retreats to her own room. I start hanging Cato’s and my clothes in the closet, arranging our toiletries in the bathroom.  Somehow, the basic household tasks I avoid at home make me feel more in control of what is coming – playing house in a moving train is nothing if not an ironic fiction. Every mile closer to the Capitol is getting me closer to my betrayal of Cato.  Being the faux-wife he deserves is the least I can do.

Cato enters the compartment and stills my hand as I reach to straighten a dress. We meet eyes.  “You don’t have to do this.”

I am on the verge of telling him everything, but then drop my gaze.  “Yes, I do.”

He draws me into his arms and rests his chin on my head.  “What did my mother say to you?”

I don’t hesitate as the lie crosses my lips. “She asked me what my dress cost.”

Cato tugs my braid to draw my head back and gazes down at me.  His eyes interrogate mine for long seconds.  “What did you tell her?”

My arms tighten around his waist as I drop my eyes.  “I said that I was sure it was ridiculously expensive.”

He gathers my head against his chest again and as I think back to his mother’s words, which echo in my mind – _It will be worth it_.  “Oh.” 

I press my cheek to his pectoral muscle and listen to his heartbeat, feeling the pulse of his blood in his veins against my skin and remembering every moment where he could have died in the arena.  He holds me tenderly and, for as much as I feel fragile in his arms, I realize again how dangerous my lack of cooperation has been for him.

“Are you hungry?” His voice rumbles against my cheek and I feel his hands start moving down my back.

“Starving.  Did Portia let you eat?”

“No.  I managed to sneak in some cheese in between all of the buffing and polishing.  I’m okay, though."

Cato’s stomach betrays him, growling loudly.  “Not hungry, eh?”  I give him a skeptical look. 

He frowns sheepishly.  “Well, I was kind of hoping that we could stay here for a while…”

I pull out of his embrace and poke him in the belly. “Save it for later.  Right now I want some of that lamb stew with plums.”  His stomach growls again. I laugh, “And I think you do, too!”

We head to the dining car and settle in for dinner.  The attendant brings us drinks while we wait for our entrees. While we sit, we hold hands under the table.  Effie and Haymitch haven’t arrived yet, and we savor the silence.

The dining car door hisses open as we receive our soup.  Haymitch sits at our table with a surprising amount of control, and without the usual cloud of alcohol fumes. 

“Haymitch?” Cato begins inquiringly.

“Let’s not talk about it.”  Haymitch gestures to the attendant, who scuttles over quickly.  “Orange juice. Now.”

He quickly pours Haymitch’s drink, then goes to check on our entrees.

Haymitch begins. “Look, we need to make a few things crystal clear.”  _No, Haymitch.  Don’t tell Cato.  Not now._   “You are going to be expected to make a few speeches – I know you’ve been practicing them – and deal with the bigwig idiots who run each district.” Haymitch raises his glass to Cato, “Your father excluded, of course.” 

I roll my eyes and slump back against my chair.  Now reassured that Haymitch wasn’t going to rat me out, I could relax a little.

“So?” Cato asks with a fair degree of insolence in his tone.

“So you need to realize that as mentors it’s now your duty to start making connections to potential sponsors.  While you shouldn’t expect that other districts will sponsor your tributes, there may be Capitol citizens visiting that will.  Be nice, flirt, and – above all – listen to what people have to say.  You might learn something.”

I feel confused – what could I possibly learn from someone in the Capitol?  How to best accessorize with a certain color?

Cato agrees readily, however.  “Sure, Haymitch.  We’ll keep our eyes and ears open.”

I give him an obligatory, “Of course,” and turn to my soup.

I don’t even get my spoon to my mouth before Haymitch resumes.  “Now, as for the districts.  You must realize that you’ve made some enemies along the way.”

I drop my spoon as I remember my part in this. I single-handedly took out quite a few of the careers.  Cato and I had collaborated on the others.  Cato himself had taken out five tributes in the bloodbath at the Cornucopia, and several more after that.  We were no better than careers. 

While I shift uncomfortably, Cato retains his air of nonchalance. “So?  It’s not like there’s anything unusual about that.”

Haymitch shoots Cato a withering look.  “It’s unusual that one district took home two victors for the first time in the history of the Games.  It’s unusual that the two victors collaborated to kill off every single one of the career tributes, plus a few more on the side.”  He slams his palm down on the table.  “And it’s extremely unusual that I continued to receive calls from people _in other districts_ to send you gifts in spite of that." Haymitch sits back and waits for our reaction.  I’ve gone rigid in my chair; Cato sits stonily at this revelation.

“People want to know how two tributes – from 12 of all places – managed to do so much against the – ” he stops as we hear the dining car door hiss open.  “Arena,” he finishes lamely.

Effie struts in, followed by the attendant bringing our entrees, and she greets us with a chipper, “Oh, how kind of you to wait for me!”  I shove my untouched soup forward and put my napkin on the table.  I’ve heard enough.  I know what was about to come next in Haymitch’s speech – “Capitol.”  In many ways, it’s perfect that Effie came in when she did.  One more word, and everything would be over. I sit up straight in fear.   

Cato notices my change in posture and touches my back.  “Kat, are you okay?”

“Yes,” I respond coolly.  “Although I think I would like to get some air at the next stop.”

His face remains impassive – the ultimate testament to how well we know each other.  Give nothing away.  “Okay.  Could I come with you?  These trains make me feel a little sick.”

We both know he feels no such sickness.

“Of course.  I couldn’t go without you.  Haymitch?  Would you care to join us?  I know that you get a little wobbly after a few, y’know?” I make a gesture of drinking, in spite of his obvious sobriety for the evening.

“’Course, sweetheart,” Haymitch drawls in an exaggerated slur. “Attendant! Let us know when we stop!” he hollers louder than necessary.

The attendant looks confused. “But, sir? Won’t you know when the train has stopped?”

“I don’t need any sass from you! Jus’ get us when y’know we’re gonna stop!”  I have to bite back a smile – Haymitch is certainly laying it on thick. 

Cato picks it up. “Haymitch, are you sure that you’re going to make it to the next scheduled stop? You don’t look so good, pal.  I don’t want you to throw up in the train like you did last time.”

Effie pales under her makeup at the memory.  “Perhaps we could stop a little early? Isn’t there a fuel station up ahead?”  She turns toward the attendant, desperately seeking affirmation.

“Yes, ma’am.  I believe there is.  Shall I put in a request with the conductor?”

“Yes! As soon as possible!” Effie manages to squeak out.  I have to be thankful for her squeamishness, but remain amazed at how she can handle the Games year after year and not deal with something as normal as vomit.

After a few words and worried glances at Haymitch, Effie ensures that the train slows to a halt at the fuel station.  We press outside into the cool air, Cato and I supporting Haymitch’s body between our shoulders. I peek behind Haymitch’s lolling head and see that the attendants have given us a wide berth, perhaps expecting Haymitch to violently erupt in mess of sick.  We lean Haymitch against a pole and lean our heads together.  The hissing of the train covers our conversation.

Cato is clearly angry.  “Haymitch, are you insane?  You almost totally screwed us back there. We’re already on Snow’s shit list, and you start mouthing off about the Capitol?  That’s the last thing we need.  Some of us have _families_ , you know.”

Haymitch scowls.  “Look, kid.  You haven’t been doing this for as long as I have.  You have no idea what it’s like.  Or what the Capitol’s going to demand of you by the time they’re through.”  He gives me a knowing look. 

I clench my jaw.  “We know the consequences.  All we’ve ever done over the past years is try to take care of ourselves.  There’s no point in doing anything else.”

Haymitch stares at me.  “Are you sure about that?” _Don’t force me into a confession here_ , I plead with my eyes.

All I can say is, “I don’t know.”

Cato watches our interaction closely.  “What’s going on here that I don’t know about?  Kat?  You need to tell me.”

I avoid his gaze and look back over my shoulder at the train attendants.  “Umm…”

The train’s whistle blasts, saving me from having to answer. “I think we need to get going,” I finish lamely.  I shove my shoulder into Haymitch’s armpit and heave him up, maintaining the pretense we established before.  Cato’s face reveals his frustration, but he only turns to Haymitch’s side and hoists him to his feet.  He responds with one word – “Later.”

We drag Haymitch to the car and joke loudly at his expense.  “C’mon, you old drunk!” Cato laughs.  Once Haymitch is deposited in his compartment to ‘dry out,’ we return to ours and prepare for bed.

Cato stuffs his toothbrush into his mouth and begins to scrub. “So?” he garbles expectantly.  I choose this moment to begin brushing my teeth as well, so I merely shrug and silently continue my routine.

Once we get into bed, Cato folds me in his arms. “You said no secrets.”

I feel my resolve crumbling. “I…” _Stop, Katniss.  This won’t help anything.  There’s nothing he can do.  Telling him won’t make it any easier._   I take a deep breath.  “It’s nothing.”

Cato releases me from his embrace and tucks a finger under my chin.  His blue eyes search deep.  I lower mine and fiddle with the fabric of his shirt. 

“Kat, you’re keeping something from me.  And after everything that we’ve been through – everything that you made me promise.  This is bullshit. Until you tell me, I can’t do this.”  He rolls over and gets out of bed.  “I’ll see you tomorrow morning.  Don’t worry,” he says sarcastically, “you can count on me to uphold my end of the performance.”  He sweeps out of the cabin, slamming the door shut behind him.

I make no effort to pursue him, curling up around a pillow and remaining immobile.  Cato’s scent wafts up from the warm sheets.  My grief overwhelms me as I lay unsleeping.  No rest will come for me tonight – I know that much.


	7. Chapter 7

_“wherein no cloud / Of anger shall remain, but peace assured / And reconcilement”_ ( _Paradise Lost_ , III.262-64)

 

The train winds its way into District 11 early the next morning.  I am awake to see it all.  The high fences lined with barbed wire and watchtowers manned with armed soldiers make me nervous.  Images of Thresh in the grassland come to me unbidden as I watch the glint of scythes in the rippling wheat.  Harvest is in full swing – I had no idea.  And they will be pulled off the job early for the ceremony, which means less money in exchange for a small amount of relief from the labor. The little information I learned from Rue seems understated.  District 11 looks like hell.  These workers will be forced to watch me accept awards for surviving when their tributes died, for killing one of their own.  I shudder.

A soft tap at the door pulls me from my reverie.  I turn from the window to see Cato entering.  “I need to get my clothes.”  He opens the closet and grabs a dress bag labeled “C-11 #1,” then exits mutely. 

I sit heavily on the bed.  Maybe it’s easier this way, I think, then laugh out loud.  I thought the exact same thing months ago as we wound our way to the Capitol for the Games.  The irony of it all…

I pull on simple clothes and head to the dining car for breakfast.  It’s blissfully empty.  I order a few quick items, shovel the food as quickly as I can, then return to my compartment. The garment bag labeled “K-11 #1” waits for me, along with “K-11 #2.”  Which one do I wear?  I unzip the second one and see a floor-length gown made of shimmering gold fabric.  Certainly not that.  The first bag reveals its contents to be a knee-length skirt the color of wheat along with a soft crimson sweater that’s lighter than air.  Red leather heels complete the outfit, which fasten with gold mockingjay buttons.  I’m starting to think Cinna is losing his mind.

Feeling frustrated, I slap my hair back in its usual braid. Cinna will likely have the prep team do something more elaborate for the banquet this evening, but for now I cannot handle any more fussing.

The train stops and we are escorted to the Justice Building.  No cheering crowd meets us, nor do I expect one to. I killed – no, decapitated Thresh.  It’s not enough that I loved Rue like a sister, that I wept like a child at her death as I sang, that I covered her body in flowers, or even that I avenged her murder on Marvel.  The tension at the Justice Building is almost palpable, as the people of District 11 crowd into the dilapidated square.  They stand en masse, hostility barely contained.  The two grieving families stand across the platform, along with the three former victors who had mentored the dead tributes.

The mayor begins a speech not unlike the one Cato’s father delivered when we left District 12.  We stand and hold hands, I look everywhere but across the stage. Cato shifts his weight uncomfortably, his shoulders stretching along the seams of his jacket.  It’s the first time I’ve seen him nervous – his palms are clammy with sweat.  When the mayor finishes speaking, Cato approaches the microphone to address the crowd first.  The cameras train on him expectantly. 

“Citizens of District 11,” he begins the standard lines we were taught to memorize. “You have sacrificed much for _us_ ,” he gestures toward me, “to be here.  We hope that we will not let that sacrifice be in vain.” 

 _Oh, no._ These are not the lines we were supposed to memorize.

“Thresh was a good man who fought fair.  He never killed anyone in the Games, and that makes him my superior.  I would like to sincerely apologize to his families for my part in his death – I wish it had never happened.” 

“Katniss?” Cato turns to me. “Do you have anything you would like to say?”

Every line that I memorized has flown out of my head.  I stumble toward the microphone and reach out for Cato’s hand.  He takes it and gives me a reassuring smile.

I begin quaveringly, my voice echoing around the square as if it were empty. “I only knew Rue for a little while.” I look over at her family. “But she reminded me of my own sister, Prim.  She was smart and kind.  We protected each other.”  I feel a prickling of tears and sniff to restrain them. “She saved my life more than once.”

I look up at Cato and know what I must do.  “While it will not bring back Rue or Thresh, I would also like to donate one month of my Victor winnings to the families of this year’s District 11 tributes for each year of the remainder of my life.” As the words pass my lips, I feel relieved.  It is the smallest thing that I can do, but will make the biggest difference in their lives.

The crowd is immobilized – they seem to be too shocked to even applaud. Such a gesture has never been made. I don’t even know if it’s allowed.  Thresh’s family gasps – the woman who must be his mother clasps her hands to her mouth as a tear rolls down her cheek.  That much money would feed them for months.  Rue’s mother, a small woman with kind eyes like her daughter’s, approaches me hesitantly.  I step toward her and extend my hand.

In a flash, she embraces me.  I can only whisper in her ear, “I am so sorry.”

She stands on tiptoe to kiss me on the cheek.  “There is nothing to forgive you for,” she whispers in return. Who else could she possibly blame?

Rue’s mother releases me and steps back to her family.  I smile out to the crowd – sincerely, this time – and wave.  I make eye contact with as many people as possible.  As my eyes come to rest upon an older man, he whistles my four-note signal to Rue.  Then, in a synchronization far too advanced to be random, each member of the crowd takes three fingers, presses them to their lips, and holds them out to me. 

I feel a tug at my arm as Cato drags me into the Justice Building, Haymitch and Effie in tow.  No sooner do the doors shut then I hear a single shot. 

“What was that?” Effie asks.  “Did we miss fireworks?  Because I didn’t see that on the schedule.”

“Yes, Effie. It must have been some fireworks.” Haymitch responds gruffly. “Now, if you don’t mind, I need to have a little chat with my victors.”

Haymitch clamps an iron hand down on our wrists and leads us through a maze of hallways and staircases before stopping at an exit door at the top of the labyrinthine building.  “Out here.”  He leads us out onto the roof, where the wind is whistling loudly.

Once released, I rub my wrist – I’ll have a bruise there tomorrow.

Haymitch points accusingly at us.  “And you thought _I_ was crazy?  At least I was only talking in the train.  You’ve been broadcast across Panem!  What’s wrong with you two?”

I stare at my feet shamefully.  Cato runs a hand though his hair and says, “Katniss didn’t do anything wrong!  Rue was her only friend in the arena but me.  And Rue saved her life.  Twice.”

“I know that,” Haymitch retorts. “But that doesn’t mean you go out of your way to shame the Capitol on national television.  And what’s your excuse, anyway?" Haymitch turns on Cato. "What, did you fall in love with Thresh, too?”

Cato narrows his eyes at Haymitch.  “It’s not important.  We’ll behave.”

Haymitch glares at me, waiting for my agreement. I cross my arms. “Yes.  We’ll stick to our lines.” 

“Good,” Haymitch visibly relaxes.  “Because you’re no good to me dead.  I didn’t work my ass off to get you out of that arena just to have you get killed by mouthing off.”

The door to the roof slams open and a flood of Peacekeepers streams out.  “This is a restricted area,” one dictates, then gestures toward the door with his gun. 

“Oh really?” Haymitch puts on an expression of innocence that doesn’t quite subdue the wicked flash in his eyes.  “It wasn’t the last time I was here.  I wanted to show my victors here the great view.”

“Sir, you and the victors are needed downstairs.  Please stay within the _clearly_ ,” the Peacekeeper emphasizes, “marked areas that are allowed for use.”

We trek back downstairs and begin preparations for a long night.  The banquet is subdued in comparison to Capitol functions.  My gold gown matches Cato’s tie and pocket square – we outshine almost every other attendee. I try my best to smile and listen to gossip, but mostly I cling silently to Cato’s side while he chats with people who know his family or want to discuss the Games.

I remain lost in my thoughts.  The image of Rue’s mother and her gentle smile swims through my mind.  She may not blame me for what happened to Rue, but clearly District 11 blames someone: Snow.  The Capitol.

The problem is that for as much as I blame the Capitol for everything, I know that I can’t fight them.  I have too much worth protecting.  Prim.  Cato.  My mother.  They are my mantra, my reason to continue the pretense. 

Peacekeepers escort us back to the train at midnight after the reception.  The lights are off across the city and Peacekeepers line the streets.  The main square has been emptied and I see water across the steps – they have scrubbed them down since the afternoon.  It’s a somber parting.  Once on board, Cato gives me a telling look, drops my hand, and retreats to his compartment. 

“Well,” chirps Effie.  “I’m glad that you two have learned some propriety!” 

I suppress the urge to roll my eyes and simply say, “Goodnight, Effie.” 

The train pulls away from the station as I lie down for bed.  Exhaustion, initially kept at bay throughout the day with adrenaline, has crept up on me.  I fall into a deep sleep as I am rocked to sleep by the motion of the train.

Hours later I wake myself with my screams, tangled in my sheets and certain that I am about to die.  My cabin door opens with a bang – Cato.  He picks me up silently and takes me back to his cabin.  I don’t try to fight.

Roughly, he dumps me on the mattress.  His bed is bigger than mine – _how did he get so lucky_? I think vaguely. “You sleep on that side,” he points to the edge nearest the wall.

I know better than to protest.  I scoot to the side of the bed and try to compress myself into as little space as possible, shrinking against the wall. “Go to sleep.  Everyone is sick of being woken up by you.” Cato throws a blanket over me and lies down on the other side of the bed without touching me, facing away from me. 

I make a nest out of the covers around my face and try to absorb his scent as I inhale.  Cato smells like home – the forest, and leather.  And something else.  The clean but masculine smell of sweat.  It’s not unpleasant; it’s just him. I bury myself in the blanket and soon return to a dreamless slumber.


	8. Chapter 8

_“Thick swarm’d, both on the ground and in the air, / Brusht with the hiss of russling wings. As Bees / In spring time, when the Sun with Taurus rides, / Pour forth thir populous youth about the Hive / In clusters; they among fresh dews and flowers / Flie to and fro, or on the smoothed Plank, / The suburb of thir Straw-built Cittadel, / New rub’d with Baum, expatiate and confer / Thir State affairs.”_ ( _Paradise Lost_ I.767-75)

 

The visits to remaining Districts are mostly uneventful.  Swarms of Peacekeepers and Capitolites circulate in several, 4 and 8 look particularly mutinous.  Going to Districts 1 and 2 are the worst.  I killed all of their tributes personally, and their families and mentors barely conceal their rage.  One mentor in District 2 – Cato’s aunt, the ruthless victor Enobaria who mentored Clove – turns her back to us on the stage and refuses to attend the evening’s banquet.  I’m sure Cato feels the sting of her rejection more than I do.  He’s a traitor to them.  To everything District 2 and, by extension, the Capitol stand for.

In each District we repeat our lines verbatim.  We attend parties.  We listen attentively.  Cato is especially savvy at cultivating friendships in the outlying Districts. He makes friends with past victors, shakes hands with wealthy sponsors, and meets more politicians than I can remember.  I try to listen and glean whatever news I can that may benefit my future tributes, but for me, it’s a blur of colorful dresses and fake smiles.  They buzz around us, drawn to the idea of us more than what we really are.  Beauty, youth, and cunning – they are fascinating.  But meeting a murderer face-to-face is what really brings them to us.  They flock around us in jewel-toned dresses and suits like silly butterflies, rustling with the noise of expensive fabric as they touch towering wigs and powdered faces, all the while relentlessly chatting about recent fashions and admiring our clothing. 

Our final stop is the Capitol, where we will be honored guests of President Snow and I, finally, will receive my instructions regarding my punishment. I withdraw further into a protective shell of silence and smiles.  I rarely attempt to draw anyone out in conversation. As we approach the shining city in the mountains, I stay in my room to avoid awkward mealtime conversations and only come out to complete the most basic of interactions.  Each night I sleep in Cato’s bed, pressed up against the cabin wall, but we rarely speak and never touch beyond our public appearances.

It’s Haymitch who breaks the stalemate the morning of our arrival.  Effie is taking a phone call in her cabin while we push our breakfasts around our plates.  “That is _enough_!” he bangs his fist on the dining table. “You two need to quit pouting.  Right now you couldn’t convince my blind aunt Mamie that you love each other!”

I glare at him but remain silent.

Cato crosses his arms and redirects.  “Haymitch, you don’t have a blind aunt Mamie.”

Haymitch isn’t one to be deterred. “That’s hardly the point.  You are courting disaster by behaving this way.” 

“Tell it to her,” Cato jerks his chin toward me.  “Hypocrite,” he mumbles under his breath.

“I’m trying my best,” I say resignedly. “Haymitch, what do you expect me to do?”

Cato looks quickly between Haymitch and me.  “So you both know something.  And you’re hiding it from me.”  He shoves the chair back from the table and glowers at both of us.  “I can’t believe this shit.  After all the crap that I’ve had to put up with, you’re keeping secrets.”  Cato storms out of the dining car, nearly toppling Effie as she flutters into the car. 

“Oof!  Cato, dear, are you all right?” Her usually immobile neon pink eyebrows rise in concern.  He muscles past her without a word.  I return to picking miserably at my food. “My goodness,” Effie continues.  “He usually has such nice manners!” 

Effie settles herself at the table and begins to load her plate with delicacies.  “Well, dear,” she turns to address me.  “There will be such a party for you tomorrow night!  Tonight you will have a chance to rest in your old quarters, but then you will be going to the party at – oh, you’ll never guess where! – President Snow’s mansion!”  Effie balls up her hands in excitement.  Haymitch excuses himself at the sound of her squeals and retreats to his cabin.

“Really?”  I prompt her, then immediately tune out. After a lengthy conversation about the President’s home, punctuated by my responses of “Yes?,” “Mhm?” “Oh, my,” and “Goodness,” Effie excuses me to rest before our arrival because, as she reminds me, “The Capitol is simply wild to see you and Cato together!”

I return to my cabin to find Haymitch.  “You need to tell Cato.” There’s no hint of sarcasm in his voice. 

“You’ve got to be joking,” I respond wearily.  As if I haven’t been torturing myself for weeks about it.

“No.  You need to tell him.  Tonight.”

“Why tonight?”  _Why not never?_ I think dourly.

“Because I changed my mind.” 

“About what?”

“I would want to know.”

I laugh cruelly.  “And when did that make a damn bit of difference?”

“Because it will to him.  Did you think that he would get through your indifference those months scot free?”

“ _What?_ ” I hiss. 

“This is officially none of my business.  Tell him. Don’t tell him.  It’s your decision.”  Haymitch leaves the cabin as I sit on my bed.

My mind draws a blank.  I cannot even begin to imagine Cato going through the same torture that I have been, imagining who he would be forced to have sex with, what they’d do to him, whether or not I would reject him because of it.  Was he being punished by Snow just like I was, but bearing up better?  Maybe Cato was right.  Maybe I really am completely selfish.  But I thought it was selfish to lay this burden at his feet and expect him to carry it with me.  I close my eyes and lean back. 

I think about Haymitch’s change of heart.  _I would want to know._   Haymitch hasn’t steered me wrong.  Has saved my life repeatedly.  Knows the moves that everyone will make before they make them.

I’ll tell Cato tonight. 

***

We arrive at the Capitol with much pomp and circumstance. Masses of crowds press up against the train, just as they did last year.  This time I try to be more gracious.  After all, I need to convince them of my affections more than I need to convince Snow.  Of course, convincing Capitolites of my affection for Cato is like shooting fish in a barrel – one touch of the hand and we’re passionately in love. 

While I still struggle with being touched by strangers, I find that knowing the grasping hands are coming makes it easier to tolerate.  Something about anticipating their movements makes me feel more at ease.

We hasten to the Training Center – the site of such anxiety such a short while ago.  While we have the evening to settle in, there is much that I don’t know about the evening’s events.  One thing is for certain: I am going to tell Cato about my punishment from Snow.

The burden is on me to initiate the conversation.  I head to Cato’s bedroom, avoiding Effie and Haymitch in the process. Tapping weakly at the door, I half expect that he won’t answer and prepare to leave only seconds later.  Just as I turn to avoid the inevitable, he opens the door.

“Can we talk?”  I stare at a point roughly between his clavicles and chin – I know I’ll crumble if I make eye contact.

Cato considers a long second.  “Sure.  Here?”

“No.  The roof.”

“Ah.”

We head toward the elevator, passing Haymitch at the bar.  He raises his glass to me in a mock salute. I ignore him and press the call button.  Seconds later we are on the rooftop.  It’s considerably colder this time.  The wind sweeps off the mountains, a herald of coming snow.  I chuckle darkly – _Snow. Ha._ I sit on the edge of a wrought iron chair and feel the chill seep through my clothing.

“I need to tell you what I’ve been keeping from you.  And I know that you will be mad.  But I want you to know that I honestly didn’t think that it would be…” What’s the right word?  Good? “Helpful,” I settle on, “for you to know.  It would just make you even more angry.”

Cato waits silently, arms crossed expectantly.

I gather my courage. “I didn’t do a good enough job to convince Snow.  I’m being punished.”

Cato sucks in his breath. “Prim?” 

“No,” I recall Snow’s words. “They’re not that savage, apparently.  It’s me.”

“You?”

“Yes.”

“Fuck.”

“Indeed.”

“That’s not funny.”  He sits down and rubs a hand over his eyes while his knuckles turn white gripping the armrest.

“How long have you known?”

“Since the day we… you know.”

“Before we started talking again or after?”

“After.”  He exhales in what seems to be relief.

“And it hasn’t happened yet?”

“No.  I’m supposed to get instructions here.”

“Oh.”

I don’t want to ask, but I have to.  “Is Snow punishing you, too?”

“Obviously, he is.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“Kat, you’ve been torturing me for weeks trying to figure out what’s wrong.  You think that isn’t a form of punishment?” 

 _Damn you, Haymitch_.  What a liar.  Or at least the most manipulative man I’ve ever known.

“God, I thought that you were going to have to go through the same thing.”

“Because you going through it isn’t bad enough?” 

“Look, this is all ridiculous.  I’m going to be whored out to some Capitol freak. There.  I told you what was wrong.”  And for as much as I try to hold onto the steely control that had gotten me through the past weeks, I promptly burst into tears.

Cato picks me up and draws me into his arms.  “You shouldn’t have kept this a secret for me. But there are a few things you need to remember.”

I sniff and try to avoid wiping my face on his shirt.  “Like what?”

“The physical is just physical.  What we have when we’re together, that’s different because I love you.  But people can have sex without being intimate."

That honestly doesn’t make me feel any better, but I listen.

“Second, this doesn’t change how I feel about you.  Is it terrible?  Yes.  But I will still love you when it’s over, okay?”

Easy for you to say now, I think.  Let’s see how you feel afterward.

“Third, this has just made me even more pissed at the Capitol than ever before.”

That makes me look up.  “What?”

“Kat, you think that becoming a victor has really improved our lives much?  It’s ruined us.  I never would have trained the way I did if I had known.”  Cato shakes his head solemnly.  “Let’s not talk about that right now, though.”  He pulls me in tighter.  “How are you doing?”

“I don’t know.  I’ve been so worried about telling you that I haven’t processed any of it.”

I hear the rumbling of laughter in his chest. “Y’know, you could have just told me.  Don’t you feel better now?”

 _Do I feel better?_ “No.  Because now I know that I really am going to be a whore.  Now it’s real.  I say it, and it becomes real.”  The image of a blue wig, bobbing in front of my eyes; greedy, chubby Capitol hands with painted talons as nails touching me… Touching me where Cato touches me.  Suddenly, I feel bile rising in my throat.  I push out of his arms and throw up into a potted plant. 

“Shit, Kat!  Are you okay?”

I spit into the dirt and wipe my mouth with my sleeve. “No.”

Cato backs away and spreads his hands in a plea. “C’mon. What’s wrong?  Are you sick?”

I draw myself up.  “It’s not any better.  Telling you didn’t make it any better. I’m going to be a whore.” I feel the hysteria rising. “And nothing you say or do will change anything.  And if it’s necessary, I will continue to be a whore.  And if it means that I protect Prim, or you, or my mother, then I’ll do it.  Because that’s what a whore does – put a price on your body, on your dignity.  And I’ll pay it.”  I ball up my hands in anger.  “But talking about this doesn’t fix it. And you won’t know how you feel after I’m done.  Don’t you see what the problem is?” I flail at the sky.  “It won’t matter how you feel, because you will be forced to be with me anyway.”

My tirade draws to a close as I run out of words. Before I can completely break down again, I walk as calmly as I can to the elevator and press the call button.  Cato follows mutely. We ride down and arrive at the penthouse without speaking.

I go to my room and prepare for bed, then climb into bed.  Cato taps once at the door then enters.  Without a word, he gets under the covers and wraps me in his arms.  We fall asleep moments later, succumbing to the fatigue of the night’s events.

For the first time while sharing a bed with Cato, I wake up hours later screaming.


	9. Chapter 9

_“Those, whom last thou saw’st / In triumph and luxurious wealth, and they / First seen in acts of prowess eminent / And great exploits, but of true virtue void ; / Who, having spilt much blood, and done much waste, / Subduing nations, and achieving thereby / Fame in the world, high titles, and rich prey, / Shall change their course to pleasure, ease, and sloth, / Surfeit, and lust, till wantonness and pride / Raise out of friendship hostile deeds.”_ ( _Paradise Lost_ XI.787-96)

 

We both emerge from my bedroom the following morning with circles under our eyes.  I still have not received directions from Snow.  I decide the best course of action is to go to the training center.  After making a halfhearted effort to eat breakfast, I change quickly and sprint to the elevator.

I’m sure that the training center will be empty and, blissfully, it is.  It’s set up as it has been in the past, waiting for tributes to come train, to learn what they can before being sent to their deaths. The silence of the room is deafening.  I feel as though I’ve entered consecrated ground, where the ritual sacrifice of children begins and, in the case of assigning training scores, ends.  It is at once sacred and profane – in the basest sense of the word.  I feel vulgar interrupting the stillness of it all.

An office light switches on across the room.  I jump a little, nervous at the thought that I shouldn’t be here, but my need to vent energy is too great.  I stride toward the door and knock bravely.  Atala, the head trainer, looks up in surprise and opens her door.

“Hello,” she says cautiously. “Can I help you with something?”

“Atala, I don’t know if you remember me from last year – I’m Katniss Everdeen.”

“Of course I remember you.  Your face is everywhere.  And you were a crack shot with that bow.”  She smiles wistfully, “I know I didn’t teach you that.”

I can’t help but grin and give her a wink.  “You taught me everything I know, I assure you.”  I glance around the room.  “Is it okay if I use the equipment?”

“Sure.  Just knock on my door when you’re done and I’ll send someone to pick up.  Would you like someone to throw targets for you?"

“Maybe in a little bit.  Thanks.”

I head to the archery range and caress the bows.  Before I allow myself to shoot, I decide to jog around the room along a rubberized track, picking up speed with every lap.  Sweat pours down my back and under my arms.  I feel re-energized with the exercise.

I tap on Atala’s door and inquire after an assistant to throw targets. She arranges it quickly, then emerges from her office to watch.

I begin with dummies, then thrown targets.  The assistant loops up a rope and pulley device around a dummy to move it across the room so I can practice different shots.  By the time I empty my quiver, my right bicep and left forearm are quivering with the exertion. I notice a blue vein bulging under the skin of my wrist.  I’m going to be sore tomorrow.

“Well done, Everdeen!  Your form is excellent. Let me know if you’d ever like a job if you get tired of being a mentor.” Atala calls.  “You’ve even drawn an audience.”  She gestures to the gamemaker booth, which is occupied by a tall man with black hair who is watching me intently – he looks familiar.  I wrack my brain trying to remember where I met him before. “By the way, while you were shooting I received a message for you.  I wrote it down.”  She hands me a note.  I crumple it in my hand as I hand her my bow, not bothering to read it yet. 

“Thanks, Atala.  I really appreciate you letting me mess up your facility.”

“Any time.  Have someone call down next time and I’ll get it set up for you.”

“Sure.  Maybe tomorrow.”  _I’ll really need to shoot something after tonight_.

I walk to the elevator, note still balled up in my hand.  Once in the elevator, I press the “R” button without thinking.  The glass box flies toward the roof, where the warm sun and a brisk wind greet me.  I sit in the wrought iron chairs I had become so familiar with and follow the intricate pattern with my fingers.  These are my last moments of remaining pure – I lean back and feel the sun on my eyelids while I slowly smooth the wrinkles out of the paper.

_Tonight after the banquet.  Car arrives outside at 2 am.  Be prepared._

Atala’s sure strokes in black ink bind me to my fate.

I assess the time from the sun – it can’t be past 11:30 yet.  My stomach rumbles in anticipation of lunch.  Hmmm.  Maybe closer to 12.  I have about fourteen hours of freedom before I am ruined. I loosen my grip on the note and the breeze catches it, the cream paper races out across the skyline and is lost against the white of the mountaintops.

I feel a small measure of relief, as my nervous anticipation can finally end.  Snow wasn’t just dangling the threat in front of me. The emotional torture will be over soon.  I can handle the physical… or at least that’s what I tell myself.

***

Back in the penthouse, I eat an enormous lunch and head to my bedroom to take a nap. It’s going to be a grueling evening even without my appointment, and I didn’t sleep much last night.  I drift in and out of sleep, dozing more than napping, until I am awoken by Cinna’s voice.

“Katniss,” he says gently. “It’s 3.  It’s time to get you ready for tonight – it may take a little longer than usual.  You will have a wardrobe change to deal with.”

“What?”  I rub the grogginess out of my eyes.  “A change?”

“Instructions.  You know.”

“Oh.”  I pause a moment.  “You know what to do, Cinna.  This hopefully won’t be a repeat performance.”

“I’ll do my best,” Cinna responds with a smile, then helps me out of bed. 

The entire prep sequence takes almost four hours.  Considering I went through the routine weeks ago, apparently every hair has grown back and then some.  I bite back a comment about no one seeing my legs under my dress when I realize that yes, indeed, someone would see them later.

Cinna’s gown for me is magnificent. He has outdone himself once again. A slim sheath of red satin shot through with gold threads, the dress is stark in its simplicity of design and ornament.  The fabric transitions into solid gold at the hem, which is split into a slit up my thigh.  Under the gown I’m wearing underthings that are fancier than I’ve ever seen – a rigid black and red boned top that pulls in my waist and lifts my breasts with matching underwear.  Smoky black stockings peek through the slit of the gown, leaving the tiniest hint of red and gold lace visible at the apex. Cinna shows me the catch on the side of the dress that releases the fabric of the gown – this is my wardrobe change.

Cinna uses a gold-plated miniaturized arrow to fix my hair in place.  “Pull here if you want your hair down,” he points to the gold fletching of the arrow.   _And Haymitch said I couldn’t do sexy_ , I think as I see myself in the mirror.  Unlike my breakdown in the shower back in 12, this time I refuse to be vulnerable. Cinna has given me the best armor that he can. 

We take private vehicles to the President’s mansion and prepare for our entrance.  Unlike the last time we were at the President’s home, there is no line, no waiting. Notably absent are the other tributes. Cato and I join hands and stand behind the curtain. 

“You look lovely,” he says with a smile.  He looks handsome in a smoky grey suit with red and gold accents.

“It’s tonight,” I whisper. 

Cato stares at me wordlessly, face blanched in worry and fear.

“I’ll be okay,” I say more to myself than him.

“I know you will be okay.  That’s why I love you.”  I look up and meet his eyes, which shine with affection.  “It doesn’t mean I won’t kill the bastard the second that I get a chance.”

His ferocity and love overwhelm me.  I fight to hold in my tears and pull my shoulders back.  The curtains are drawn open.  Show time.

The rest of the evening is difficult.  Every man I speak to I imagine will be the one I have to meet tonight.  I imagine it’s the portly man in the green suit, or a short fellow who stares at my breasts.  Perhaps the blue-skinned man who constantly adjusts his belt?  Or the elderly gentleman who surprises me with his spryness on the dance floor?

Cato is a model of restraint.  He greets every person – woman or man – who approaches me with kindness, but keeps his arm firmly wrapped around my waist.  He lets me go only when propriety dictates that he must release me, and otherwise stands as a watchful guard of my chastity.

After midnight the party devolves into something of an orgy, with women and men pairing off together and kissing in the corner; other couples indiscreetly fornicating in the bathrooms; women groping each other on the dance floor while men sneak off to indulge elsewhere.  I stumble across a group of them behind the buffet table, humping away gamely.  Those who do not participate watch without emotion. All of them have a glassy-eyed look to their faces, almost objective as they observe the most intimate of acts.  Cato turns me into his chest to shield my eyes.  “You don’t need to see any more,” he says simply.

As the time approaches for our departure, we head outside.  There are two cars.  “Miss Everdeen?” the driver on the right inquires.  I approach him, still holding Cato’s hand.  He refuses to let go, his grip stonily cold against my skin. This is my true submission to Snow - Cato can't try to stop me now.  Not now that I've finally tamped down my last qualms.

“You can’t do this, Kat.”

“I have to.”  I reach up and touch his face.  “Remember what you said?  That it wouldn’t change anything?”

“I lied,” he says mournfully.

My emotions must be completely out of tune, because once again I feel relief at his confession.  I squeeze his hand then pull it out of his grip.  “There would be something wrong with you if you didn’t.”  I stand on my toes and kiss his cheek.  “I love you. I’ll see you when I get back.”  I step back and get into the vehicle.  The door shuts securely behind me.  We pull away from the curb and into the bright lights of the city.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the delay on this one, folks! I've been abroad and without access to my computer. I'll try to get back to more regular posting ASAP!

_“And from rebellion shall derive his name, / Though of rebellion others he accuse.”_ ( _Paradise Lost_ XII.36-37)

 

I arrive at a large home that is only minutes from President Snow’s mansion. The driver opens my door and I am ushered inside. The house is dark and quiet – seemingly emptied of the usual servants that are necessary to maintain such a palatial estate.  I stand in the open receiving area and wait, worrying the silken fabric of my gown between my fingers.  I suddenly feel itchy everywhere – along my hairline and cheeks, my lower back, every part of me feels inflamed and sensitive, and I have to resist the urge to dig my fingernails into my skin.

As a form of distraction, I begin to examine the details of the space.  The walls are quite simple – dark wood with simple paintings.  The furniture is muted and understated, upholstered in hunter green and sage.  This is not at all what I expected from a wealthy Capitol citizen. Neon seems to be the preferred color palette for most, but not here. 

It feels like an eternity before a silent servant approaches me and guides me upstairs.  I am seated in another waiting area on a comfortable couch. My hands are shaking as I grip the edge of the soft fabric. In spite of my fear, my stomach grumbles.  I ate nothing at the party, gnawing on my lip instead.  Long minutes pass.

“Miss Everdeen,” I hear from behind my shoulder.  I shoot off the couch and turn to face the voice.  It’s the black-haired man from the training center!  He’s fully dressed – thank goodness. “My name is Plutarch Heavensbee.”

I stand mutely, unsure how to proceed.  _Is this where I take my clothes off?_

He seems expectant.  When I don’t respond he continues, “I am the head gamemaker for this year’s Games.”  Wow – definitely an important person to know.  I try to immobilize my features and show him that trying to impress me won’t make me like him any more.

“I need you to listen carefully, because we only have tonight to discuss plans.”

“What?” I splutter in surprise.  That’s not what I expect to hear.  “What plans?  Is this a joke?”

“Miss Everdeen, I will explain all in due time.  Let me make one thing perfectly clear – nothing is going to happen tonight except for talk.  I paid an exorbitant amount of money to get you to my home without suspicion. Before we begin our discussion, I first would like you to sit down and have something to eat.  I’m sure you’ve had a trying night.”  He summons another silent servant, who delivers a tray of food and then exits.  I look at the tray warily.  “There’s nothing in the food.  Here,” he picks up a spoon and takes a bite from every dish on the tray, then sips the water. “See?”

I sit down and gingerly take a bit of the stew – it’s a rich beef dish with potatoes and gravy. Once my mouth is full, he proceeds.

“I have worked very hard over the past few years to make sure that my house is free of any listening devices. When pressed, I chalk it up to wanting to protect gamemaker secrets from anyone who would hope to benefit from knowing the arena – gamblers, mentors, you know.”

I nod, chewing.  He continues in furtive tones, “But it has allowed me to begin developing advanced strategies to overthrow the Capitol’s governance of Panem.”  With that, I choke on my food.  “You what?”  Heavensbee rushes over and gives me a thump on the back to clear my air passages.  I shrink from his touch and glare at him accusingly, shaking my head as if that will reveal the truth.  He steps back and speaks quietly, “I am planning a rebellion. And I need your support and active participation.  If you agree, I will provide you with further details.”

I gather my wits and place my spoon down on the tray.  “Mr. Heavensbee, you have a greater likelihood of having sex with me tonight than getting my cooperation with a rebellion.  You’ve proven that you can afford former, but you can’t afford the latter.”

He exhales heavily in frustration.  “What would it take for you to get involved?”

I think for a long minute.  “Something that you can’t buy – protection for my family, Cato, his family, and me.  Guarantee our safety.”

“That I cannot do.”

I stand and prepare to leave. “Then I’m sorry.” 

“Stop, Miss Everdeen.  You’re essentially trapped here until dawn.  Appearances, you know.  Please hear me out."  I slowly return to my chair, warily assessing him. "There has been an extreme effort to keep you alive and popular.  The districts will rebel regardless of your support.  But we have a much greater likelihood of success with you on our side.”

“Why is that?”

“Because you are the Mockingjay.” I can practically hear the word transform into a proper name. 

“The ‘Mockingjay’? What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You are our symbol.  Our icon.”

“Who is this ‘our’ that you’re talking about?”

“Agree to help and I will tell you everything you need to know.”

I pause.  “Do I have any time to think about it?”

“Of course.  How much time do you think you need?”

“I don’t know.”

“That’s understandable. But before we finish our conversation, let me remind you of a few things.  How long do you think it will take for Snow to do this to you again?  And with someone who is not as well-intentioned as I?”  I still on the couch, staring at him.  He presses his advantage, leaning forward toward me in earnest. “Do you honestly think that Mr. Undersee will not be sold to the highest bidder and then passed around to every wealthy Capitol citizen who wants a taste?  That your sister will not be reaped for the Games eventually?  Made victor and then sold just as you have been?  You can free them from this terror.”

What a cruelly low blow. Prim.  The whole reason for my being here.  For needing to win in the first place.  I cannot rouse myself to speech.

“Katniss, you have until the reading of the card for the Quarter Quell.  That is one month from tomorrow. Until then, you will need to keep up appearances.  While I have designed the arena, I have no idea what sort of situation you will be in as a mentor.  You don’t want to make this worse for your tributes, or for you and Mr. Undersee.”

I take stock of what I have been told.  In spite of my best – well, not _best_ , but good – efforts to present a front of happiness with Cato, our mission from Snow was doomed to fail from the beginning.  In many respects, that knowledge alleviates some of the pressure to perform.

“Obviously, I am relying upon your discretion.  If word starts to circulate about a rebellion and my name is drawn into the conversation, I will have no choice but to identify you as a rebel in order to preserve the rebellion.  It will be your word against mine.  I hope that you understand I’m not trying to threaten you, but I will do what is necessary to keep our movement alive.”  His words ring with sincerity.

I hesitate, wanting to commit and run away simultaneously. “I will need to think about this.  Is it okay if I talk about this with Cato?”  I can’t bear the thought of keeping another secret from him.

Heavensbee sits in thought for a long minute.  Finally, he says, “Yes.  I think that would be advisable if you can find a place where you are sure you will not be overheard.”

“I’ll wait until we get back to 12.” I pause and we sit quietly for a while.  “I’ll have my answer for you by the reading of the card.  How should I notify you?”

“If I don’t hear from you, I will assume that you agree.  Otherwise, just send a letter with one word – ‘No’.”

“Simple enough.” 

“Yes.  I look forward to hearing your answer.”  A clock chimes softly in the background, signaling that it is 3 am.  “You do not need to stay any longer.  I will have my driver return you to the training center.  Should anyone ask…” he trails off.

“I’ll tell them you were an excellent lover,” I respond firmly.

***

I race into the training center and press the elevator’s call button in a staccato rhythm.  “Hurry,” I mumble under my breath, cursing its leisurely descent.  After what feels like an eon of waiting, the elevator arrives.  I jam the “12” button and “Doors Close,” tapping my foot impatiently as the elevator ascends. 

Once in the penthouse, I kick off my shoes and sprint into Cato’s room.  Unsurprisingly, he’s still awake, building a house of cards on the windowsill.  His knuckles are bandaged; blood seeps through to the surface. He jumps out of his chair at my entrance and squeezes me into a tight hug.  “Are you okay?” he whispers, voice full of concern.

“Shower with me,” I respond.  I lead him to the bathroom and turn on every sink faucet on the way and flush the toilet for good measure – the sound of rushing water is deafening.  Cato’s face registers his confusion, but he doesn’t protest. I strip out of my clothes quickly, a task made easier by Cinna’s escape-friendly clothing.  Once in my undergarments, I catch Cato’s eye.  He’s staring admiringly, but he hasn’t removed his clothing yet. 

I give him a significant look.  “Hurry,” I insist.

In the shower I punch all of the buttons for water jets and we stand in the hot water together.  I wrap my arms around him and whisper into his ear, “Nothing happened.  Something big is coming, but I can’t talk to you about it until we get to 12.  Can you wait?”

“Yes,” he breathes.  “Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Do you honestly think I could get myself back into those underclothes on my own?”

“Good point.”  Cato runs his hand along my hair and down my back.  I look up at him – he’s brimming with happiness, and the grin on his face reaches his eyes for the first time in weeks.  “I am _so_ happy that you’re back and unharmed.”

I draw his face to mine.  “So am I.”  I kiss him deeply, finally channeling all of the pent up anger and fear and desire through the heat of our mouths and tongues.  Cato hitches me up on his hips and leans me back against the wall, sheathing himself in me as the water pours down upon us. I am slippery with soap and passion as we move together, dragging our breath in painfully exquisite gasps as we come together. 

When I finally regain my faculties, we are slumped in the bottom of the shower, hot water still flowing. I give Cato a nudge with my elbow, and he reaches up to turn off the knobs with an exhausted air to his movements. 

“Bed?” he says, staring at the wall.

“As long as you promise we won’t do that again until tomorrow.”

“Deal.  I don’t even think I could right now.”

“Seriously?”

“You’ve unmanned me, Kat.”

I let out a low chuckle.  “Come on.  Time to sleep.”  We use the machine to dry ourselves off instantly and curl up together in bed naked, unwilling or unable to exert the effort to find pajamas.  "By the way. What happened to your knuckles?" I murmur as we doze off. 

Cato's right bicep tightens around my shoulder. "I didn't handle this as well as I thought I would. There's a rather ugly dent in the side of my transport vehicle."

There's something soothing about his anger - the injustice of what I had been sent to do. It was a miracle that I had managed to come through unscathed and unmolested. "Never again," I respond. 

"Never again," Cato whispers.

I fall into a dreamless sleep within minutes in the safety of his arms.


	11. Chapter 11

_“Cause / Of truth, in word mightier than they in arms”_ ( _Paradise Lost_ V.31-32)

 

For the first time in ages, I open my eyes with a feeling of warmth and security.  Cato’s iron arms encircle me protectively, his face buried in my hair.  While plenty remains to fear, I am preserved by honesty.  I take a moment to rub my lips on his scarred forearms, wrinkling my nose at the tickle of the soft golden hairs there.  After a moment, I realize that his hands are cupping my naked breasts – charming, I think wryly.

I feel a change in his breathing and I know he’s awake.  He gives my breasts a squeeze and groans in pleasure.  Twisting around to face him, I kiss his chin. 

He cranes to look down at me.  “Good morning.”

I smile.  “Good morning.”

“I didn’t think I’d be waking up like this today.”

“Me neither.”  We both laugh at the dramatic change in our existence since last night.

“It must be close to noon,” Cato muses. 

I wrestle myself closer to him.  “Noon?  Oh well…”

“Yeah… SHIT!” he exclaims, then flies out of bed as if he’s shocked, dumping me out of his arms unceremoniously.

“What?”

“It’s our interviews with Caesar again today!  We need to start getting ready.”  He rips the sheet off the bed and swaths me in the fabric, then begins shooing me away from the bed.  “Get going!  Effie’s going to have an aneurysm!”  I stumble toward the door, clutching the sheet to my chest, slightly disgruntled at being ejected from such comfortable repose.

“Kat?”

“Yes?” I answer with more than a little acid in my tone.

“There’s a surprise coming in the interview.  Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”  He grins as I furrow my brow in confusion, then he brusquely shoves me out the door.  “See you later!”

The door slams behind me and I turn to face the apartment.  Haymitch is frozen, drink halfway to his mouth, staring at me wrapped in the sheet that is still partially trapped in the door.  “Uh, g’morning Haymitch.” 

Haymitch lowers his drink. “Good morning, sweetheart.  Did you have a good night?”

I pull myself up to my full height – admittedly, that’s not much – and set my shoulders, drawing on every last shred of dignity remaining as I tug the sheet out of the doorjamb to cover myself.  “Better than I thought it would.”

“I see,” he mutters over the edge of the glass, appraisingly me carefully as he takes a sip.  “We’ll have to talk when we get home.”

_How did he know?_

There’s nothing that can be said now, so I simply respond, “Of course,” then retreat to my room.  I shower as quickly as possible, although I am still clean – albeit slightly rumpled – from last night’s shower.  I blush at the memory, and then curse myself for being such a prude in spite of everything that’s happened to me of late.

When I exit the shower and dry myself off, I return to the bedroom where Cinna awaits me. He doesn’t raise an eyebrow, let alone ask how my evening went.  I reach out for his hands and simply say, “It went as well as can be expected.”

“I’m glad.” The sun in the room glints off Cinna’s gold eyeliner.  “I hope that I never have to help you with such things again in the future.”

“Agreed.  Let’s get ready for this interview.”

For the first time since coming to the Games, I am entirely compliant and submissive with my prep team.  They continue to chatter, expressing admirations at the beauty of the gowns I wore on the Victory Tour, sadness that they were not included at the President’s party, and – as I continue listening – frustration that they cannot get certain items that had been so common in the past.  This knowledge emerges obliquely.  Flavius is angry that his favorite style of silk embroidery thread is unavailable.  _Textiles – District 8_.  Venia curses the poor quality of the shrimp she had to buy for her party. _Seafood – District 4_.  Octavia wanted to purchase a certain microchip that holds thousands of songs but had discovered that the store was sold out.  “Nothing has ever been sold out before!” she squeaks. _Electronics – District 3_.  Over the course of the four hours of prep time, I can tell that many of the Districts are actively slowing their production, either from revolt or from the repression of a revolt.  I mentally file away each piece of information.

I emerge from the bathroom with rosy cheeks, long eyelashes, an elaborate coiffeur, and a head full of knowledge.  Cinna helps me into my final gown of the Victory Tour – a floor-length rose-colored dress of shimmering fabric with a deep “V” that dives between my breasts.  He ties a silvery necklace inlaid with pink and red gems around my neck, then plants a series of jewel-encrusted pins in my hair. 

“There,” says Cinna as he embeds the final pin, which completes the nimbus of glimmering light around my head.  “You look like a queen.”

“I couldn’t do it without you,” I respond as I hug him.

I exit the bedroom to find Effie, but not Haymitch or Cato.  It’s an awfully familiar feeling – I am sure that whatever Haymitch and Cato have planned will be… my thoughts stop.  Oh no.  What could he possibly be announcing now?  I sigh.  It’s out of my hands.  

We take a vehicle to the auditorium and I wait backstage dutifully.  This time I feel no doubts, no hesitation about what waits for me out there.  The Panem anthem begins and I require no prompting from the crew to take my place on stage. The thunderous applause is no stranger to me tonight, but a cordon of protection.  Unlike the sullen reception we experienced at some of the districts along the Tour, the Capitol would always be ravenous for their Victors.

Caesar’s voice booms at the end of the anthem to introduce the subject of the show – interviewing this last year’s tributes at the end of their Victory Tour – and Cato, whose reception shakes the floor of the auditorium.  My name is called moments later.  As I take the stage, the crowd cheers wildly, screaming “Katniss!” and “Girl on Fire!”  I smile and wave out to the audience, taking care to blow kisses at random.  Once I reach the loveseat where Cato and I will have our final interview – ever, I can’t help but hope – I extend a hand to Caesar, who shakes it genially, then kiss Cato’s cheek.  His charcoal grey suit is accented with rose silk.  Maybe it’s the lights, but he looks a little pale.  I have no time to dwell on him, as Caesar jumps into the interview.

“Katniss, you look lovely!” Caesar exclaims as I perch on the edge of the sofa.  “You and Cato really have had an incredible run of ensembles.”

“Oh, Caesar.  We have Cinna and Portia to thank for everything!  They simply are the best,” I gush. 

Caesar peers out theatrically into the audience.  “Can Cinna and Portia take a bow?”  We spot them toward the side of the auditorium.  Rather than bow, they wave quickly then disappear in the dark contrast of the stage lights.

Caesar turns to us once more.  “Cato, what do you think of your prep team’s talents?” 

“Well, Caesar,” Cato begins, “my team has certainly saved me more than once.”

“Why, what do you mean?” Caesar inquires.

“There was a time before my last interview with you – I think you remember that occasion?” Caesar nods. “Right before I went on stage I was so nervous.  I hadn’t seen Katniss in days.”  Cato squeezes my hand and gives me an adoring look.  The crowd coos at the endearing image we present.  “I was so nervous that I busted a seam in my coat.  Portia had it fixed in minutes.”

“That _is_ impressive!” Caesar pronounces.

“But tonight,” Cato continues, “They really helped me out.”

“Really?” Caesar looks surprised – impressive considering his generally immobile features.  Surgeries in the Capitol had a funny way of placing a perpetual smile on one’s face, even when you didn’t feel happy.  The crowd begins to mutter in excitement.

“Yes.  Tonight, I almost forgot this,” Cato reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small black box.  “Can you believe it?” Gasps echo through the theater. I can’t help but feel confused.  What could possibly be so important?   Caesar’s jaw opens in shock as Cato shifts off the couch and kneels in front of me. He opens the box to reveal a ring – silvery metal with a large glittering diamond.   




“Katniss Everdeen.  I have loved you since we were children.  We have saved each other again and again,” Cato’s words ring with sincerity, although I have no idea what he is doing.  I’ve heard these words before, but a ring?  What’s that for?  “I want to spend the rest of my life with you.  Will you marry me?”

Now it’s my turn for my jaw to drop.  No wonder I didn’t understand at first – we don’t exchange rings in District 12 when we want to marry someone.  We don’t have trivial tokens the way the Capitol does.  We’re too poor.  Our engagement ceremony – asking the girl, then parents for legal permission when under the age of eighteen – is usually followed almost immediately by the wedding. After all, what’s the point in waiting? Life is short.

I realize that the audience has been waiting with bated breath to hear my answer.  Tears well up in my eyes – for as much as I hate that this moment has been public, I know that my answer is genuine.  “Yes!” I cry, slapping the ring out of his hands and throwing myself into his arms.  The crowd goes wild at the gesture – they must think that I love him so much I don’t care about the ring. 

Technically, that’s true.  But the ring is another form of bondage to the Capitol.  Another form of service.  It’s not our simple District 12 proposal, sealed with the approval of our families.  The ring’s twinkling beauty is another artificial part of the whole affair.  Would I have accepted Cato if he had asked me in any other place?  Absolutely.  In a heartbeat.  But our relationship would never be free of the performance for the Capitol… _unless_ _there was no Capitol_.

The interview resumes as I come to my senses, with a stagehand hunting down the ring, which feels cool once slipped on my fourth finger. The metal is heavy, and the diamond doesn’t want to stand perfectly upright.  I begin to circle the jewel around the base of my knuckle, fidgeting with the ring until I feel Cato’s hand take mine with a reassuring squeeze.  Caesar engages Cato with more witty banter, and questions about being nervous “popping the question” ( _What does that even mean?_ ) and finding the perfect ring.   I try to listen, but find myself smiling blankly out at the audience, at Cato, or at Caesar in turn. 

“Katniss, dear.” Caesar breaks my contemplation.  “What do you think of the ring?”

I pull my hand out from Cato’s and stare at the diamond, which sparkles cheerily in the bright stage lights.  The ring is ridiculous.  It will be my constant reminder of how stupidly public my life had become, how dangerous it could be for me to fail. I think of Cinna’s suggestion before my first interview – talk like you’re speaking with a friend.  “I would have been happy with nothing.  We don’t have much in District 12.  We value simplicity,” I begin honestly. “But this is so beautiful – it’s simple, just like we are in 12.  I can tell that Cato loves me a lot and knows me very well,” I finish as I smile at Cato through my eyelashes.  My answer elicits a collective “aw.”  “I just hope,” I resume, “That you remembered to ask my mother for permission?”

Cato claps his hand over his mouth in mock horror as the crowd breaks out in laughter. “I knew I forgot something,” he moans.  Thank goodness – the interview is back on track.  We return to a conversation about my dream wedding, which took some creativity on my part given that I’ve never dreamed of a wedding before.

After several more minutes of conversation, Caesar changes direction.  “I think there’s someone here tonight who would like to offer his personal congratulations!”  The crowd applauds, knowing that whoever the person is.  He must be important, given the volume of their cheers. 

President Snow emerges from the wings of the stage, and it’s all I can do not to recoil from the man.  Cato tightens his grip on my hand as we rise to greet him.  Snow offers Cato his hand in greeting, then leans in to give me a grandfatherly hug.  “Brava,” he whispers in my ear. I manage a weak smile in response then try my best not to shake.  He turns to the audience and addresses them more than us. “What do you all think about a wedding in the Capitol?”

The crowd members go completely crazy, stomping feet and hollering in return, “Yes! Yes!”

“I think that settles it,” Snow responds magnanimously.  “We’ll throw you the wedding of the century!  Of course,” he lowers his tone as the crowd settles down once more, “You’re going to have to get her mother’s permission, Mr. Undersee.  I can't change the law, you know.”  Snow wags a reprimanding finger at Cato with a smile. I grind my teeth together at the lie.

Cato grins cheekily. “I promise, sir.  Although we might be thirty by the time she allows us to!”

The audience erupts in laughter.  We finish the interview without further hitches or surprises. I continue to smile blandly and answer questions as sweetly as I can.  We take our leave with cheers and applause, my new ring twinkling in the fading stage lights.


	12. Chapter 12

_“…and both confess’d / Humbly their faults, and pardon begg’d”_ ( _Paradise Lost_ X.1099-1100)

I anticipate the return trip with gusto.  After collapsing under nervous exhaustion at the end of the night, Cato and I hustled to shower and dress for the train and sit near the door at least ten minutes prior to our scheduled departure, like puppies eager to be let out.  I don’t bother to reprimand him for the proposal.  We’re keeping up the façade that Snow wants us to, and I can’t tell him about Plutarch Heavensbee until we are safely in the woods.

Effie happens upon us with a fair degree of surprise that is rapidly replaced with a grin of approval.  “I’m glad to see that you both are learning the importance of timeliness!”  I smile broadly at her, unable to conceal the pleasure of escaping the Capitol so unscathed after weeks of anxiety. 

“You’ve taught us so much, Effie!”  Cato responds in a chipper voice that borders on sarcastic.  “Is there any way that we can leave a little early?”

“Oh, no,” Effie insists.  “That will throw off the whole time table!  Your adoring fans await, and you don’t want to disappoint them.”  Cato and I exchange a dour look.  I cross my arms and slump back against the chair. 

“Fine,” Cato scowls.

“What’s wrong?” Effie seems concerned. “It’s as if you’re eager to leave all of this wonderful luxury!”

I roll my eyes, barely trying to hide it.  “We miss our home, Effie.  It might not be much, but it’s home.  Don’t you miss the Capitol for reasons other than its luxuries when you’re traveling?”

“Not really!” she chirps, echoing the Capitol line.  “I always have everything!  The Capitol provides for my every need.”

Rather than argue with her – it would be like fighting with a child – I just say, “Well, we miss our families.  So we need to wait, what? Five more minutes?”

Effie glances at a bejeweled watch.  “Seven.”

“Great.”  I suppose it’s better than ten.  We’ve managed to waste three minutes arguing about when to leave.  I reach over and take Cato’s hand in mine, his grip pressing the engagement ring into my fingers.  His palms are still calloused after years of sword work, but they have softened with less use and Capitol manicures.  It’s odd – his softening hands mean that he’s no longer as violent, no longer such a practiced killer.  Or at least not acting on any violent impulses.  Isn’t that what I want?  Isn’t that what I want?   Or do I want the warrior that I helped to create? Who helped create me?  My hands were rougher than his, after my long hours hunting. I muse for a quiet moment, eyes on the gem that winks in the light and feminizes my otherwise masculine hands. 




Before I have any time to decide, Effie announces that it’s time to go.  Our route to the train is – as usual – packed. We run the gauntlet of grasping hands and escape to the train’s quiet refuge.  It’s still early, and we haven’t eaten.  Effie heads to the conductor’s quarters to ensure our timely departure, while Haymitch, Cato, and I go to the dining car.  We each order breakfast and, outside of various pleasantries that we exchange about the quality of food, chew silently.  I set down my fork and clear my throat, as I can see Haymitch is – for once – waiting for someone else to start the conversation.

“So, I was thinking that we should start a jogging regimen once we return to 12,” I begin.  It’ll be the perfect cover to have conversations about what Plutarch Heavensbee told me if we can’t get out to the woods.  I know I want Haymitch in on this – he’s watched my every move through this whole ordeal.

Haymitch chokes on his eggs and begins coughing spastically.  Cato thumps him on the back to dislodge the food, and shoots me a conspiratorial look.  Obviously this wasn’t how Haymitch imagined the conversation progressing.

Once Haymitch resumes breathing normally, he gasps out, “What?  Why do we need to start jogging?”

“Just see if you like it.  You’re getting paunchy, old man,” I twitch up a corner of my mouth. “Besides, I don’t want Cato getting soft like you.” 

Cato narrows his eyes at me.  “Me?  Getting soft like Haymitch?  You’re on thin ice, woman.”

I resume, assuming an air of blissful unconcern at their respective protests. “I think it would set a good example for everyone.  Show that the Victors of 12 are united and working together on something.  Staying strong and fit.  Maybe some of the wealthier kids could start doing it too.  Put on a little weight.  Prepare for the Games.”  I raise an eyebrow at Haymitch.  “That’s not against the rules, is it?”

Haymitch sits unmoving as he gives me a suspicious look.  “No, there’s nothing wrong with that.  Except that I’m a drunk old man who doesn’t want to start running unless someone is chasing me with a knife.  And I’ve had enough of that for a while,” he finishes sardonically.

Cato snorts.  “I suppose you did fight your way out of the arena to drown in a pile of your own puke.  Or to have your liver fail.  Or to get so disgusting you’ll be even more celibate than you are.”

“Fine!” Haymitch practically shouts.  “I’ll go jogging!  But let’s start out with extended walks and then work our way up to jogging.”  He adjusts his collar as if he’s reminding himself of his dignity.  “It’s been a while.”

“Okay.” I pause. “Let’s meet tomorrow morning.  Early.  Sound good?”

Cato nods.  Haymitch gives a grumpy “harrumph” and returns to his breakfast.  Effie enters the dining car, the enthusiasm evident on her face.

“We have a small change!” Oh, no.  Effie hates changes. “We are going to need to be present for the reading of the card.  I had forgotten, because this year is the third Quarter Quell and we haven’t had one in so long, that tradition dictates that all previous Victors must be present on camera for it.”  Effie looks to us with a smile as if we are supposed to know why that would be good.  When we remain still, she looks crestfallen.  “Well, don’t you understand?  You’ll get another lovely set of outfits and we will all be on television again!  Won’t that be lovely?”

Haymitch looks all the more confused.  “Effie, they never had all the previous Victors on camera during the last Quarter Quell.  This is a first.”

“Well that hardly matters, does it?  You’ll get to be on television again!”  Effie looks downright shocked that we aren’t more enthusiastic about the publicity.

Cato, Haymitch, and I stare blankly at Effie for a second, then exchange a dark look. It’s clear that we are all thinking the same question.  _Why do they want us on camera to read the card?_   In past years, they had horrible twists to the usual rules for the Games.  The first Quarter Quell, they had the districts nominate their own tributes.  For the second, Haymitch’s year, the Capitol drew on twice the number of Victors. Haymitch had to stand against not 23 other tributes, but 47.  Even though I wasn’t alive to watch it, Haymitch’s Games were legendary for their brutality.  Almost half the tributes - a whole Games' worth in a different year - died in the bloodbath at the Cornucopia.

Cato is the first to recover.  “I’m sure it will be great, Effie.”

“Good,” she responds as she plants her fists on her hips.  “You need to be presentable in a little less than a month.  I’ll be sure to have Cinna and Portia send clothing for you, and I’ll make all the arrangements for the stage and crews.”

I don’t even bother to respond.  Haymitch can only nod.  This adjustment is not good, especially for a year when the normal rules don’t apply.  Cato and I finish our breakfast and retreat to his cabin under the pretense of needing a nap. 

We get under the covers and hold each other, as though our arms can provide the necessary protection against the horrors around us.  I’m not sure where to begin, so I start with inanities.  The unfamiliar feeling of the ring, snug against my knuckle, gives me a topic. “Thank you for the ring.”

Cato’s arms tighten around me – his protective instincts seem to be in high gear today.  “You’re welcome.  I was informed that I needed to give you a ring to make it official. That’s what people in the Capitol do, I guess.” 

“Oh.  I didn’t know.”

“I’d heard about it from my parents.  Cinna gave me a few choices.  I’m sorry I didn’t really pick it out myself.”

“It’s very pretty.”

“You looked great last night.”

“Thanks.  When did you decide that you were going to propose?”  My voice is muffled against his chest.

“I figured it was the right thing to do.  You know…” he trails off.  “It’s expected.”

“So that’s why you did it?”  I try to keep my voice as even as possible.

Cato pulls back from me and props himself up on his elbow.  “Is that what you think?”  I avert my eyes.  “Kat, I have planned to propose to you since we were kids.  This was simply a matter of expedience.  We can still do a toasting.  Fuck those Capitol idiots.  They can see the show, but we’ll do it for real.  Just us and family.  Sound good?”

I yank him off his elbow and draw him to me.  I can feel his body stiffen briefly in shock, not expecting the attack of my embrace.  He chuckles once he realizes its significance – the gesture is a far better expression of my feelings than my words would be.  The toasting, in which the couple enters their home and toasts a piece of bread, then feeds it to each other, is the tradition in District 12.  I can’t imagine marrying Cato without it, nor could I imagine the Capitolites planning our wedding making any attempt to learn about it, let alone integrating it into their ceremony.

“Now,” he continues.  “You really want to help Haymitch get in shape?”

I nod. “Now more than ever.  Something’s up with the card reading.  And we have a decision to make.”

Cato’s chest rumbles in laughter. “Like whether or not you can honestly wear white for the wedding?” 

I smack his chest – hard.  “You’re awful!”  He keeps chuckling in spite of my obvious irritation.  “You’d better quit laughing or else you can find someone else to sleep with.”

“Oh yeah?  Like who?” Cato responds facetiously.  “Would you like a list of past conquests so that you don’t punish me with the same person?”

My eyes widen in shock.  “A _list_ of past conquests?  What on earth were you doing when we weren’t training?”  I guess I had never thought much about who Cato had been with before our relationship became romantic. 

Cato’s tone becomes serious.  “I was kidding, Kat.”

“Really,” I deadpan. 

“Look, I’m no saint,” he begins.

I interrupt, hoping to spare myself of the more vulgar details by pretending ignorance of what he’s trying to explain.  “I saw the replays of the Games.  I know that.”

“No, that’s not what I mean.  You were honest with me about who you had been with.”

“Yes, well, we didn’t have much time to discuss it,” I say wryly.

Cato blushes – something he rarely does – right up to his ears.  “We should have.  I should have known better.”

“What do you mean, you should have known better?  I knew what I was doing.”

Cato lets out a bark of laughter. “Except, by all definitions, you _didn’t_ know what you were doing.  I did.”

“So?”

“Well, I thought you should know that I have been with girls before.  We’ve never talked about it, but you have a right to know.”

I take a deep breath, wondering whether or not I could bring up his anger at my being sold for sex without sounding petty.  No – probably not. I figure it’s better for Cato to continue his confession.  “Anyone I know?”

“Uh, sort of.  It was when my parents took me to District 2.”

“Okay, then.  Spit it out.”

“We promised each other to be honest.  This is me being honest.  We’re getting married now, and communicating is important.”

Now he’s spouting maxims about relationships?  “Quit stalling!” I practically shout. I am starting to get frustrated with Cato dancing around the matter.  I didn’t want to know to begin with, but this seems like something he feels compelled to tell me.

“Well…” Cato avoids my eyes and holds me tight, as if anticipating that I’m going to hit him. His entire body hums with tension. “It was…” he pauses again.

My mind starts putting together the pieces.  A girl I know from District 2?  I pull my head back and look him in the eye, answering for him. “It was Clove, wasn’t it?”

“Uh, yeah.” 

“Ah.”  I stop.  “You do realize that she was completely crazy, right?”

“Well, I did once we got to training.”  His words begin to pour out in a rush.  “I think that’s why everyone in 2 was so pissed at me.  I think they imagined that she would volunteer last year and win, then I would volunteer and win this coming year.  We’d end up together, you know?”  Cato pauses thoughtfully.  “I always knew that I loved you, but my father really pressured me to find someone ‘worthy’,” Cato mimics his father’s droning and pompous voice.  “‘Because Undersees do not marry poor girls from the Seam, no matter how they have helped one train.’”

“And you waited this long to tell me because…?” I prompt.

“Well, for a while there we weren’t talking.  Then we were...” Cato clears his throat uncomfortably as he alludes to our intimacy.  “Then there was the whole thing in the Capitol where we weren’t really talking. It didn’t seem like a really good time to bring it up.  Plus,” he continues, rashly explaining away his omission. “You killed her yourself!  So, I figured that you already had your revenge. Or whatever.”

“Mhm.” 

“So, are you mad?”  Cato’s beseeching tone reminds me of when a child misbehaves and asks for forgiveness.

I roll my eyes, then inhale deeply as I try to control my irritation. “Well when you describe it that way, I guess I don’t have much of a right to be angry with you.  But I’m going to give you one more chance to be completely frank with me, because not knowing about Clove almost got me killed.  Is there anyone _else_ that you slept with that I should know about?”

“No.  There are probably some girls in town who aren’t going to like you much, but you never hung out with them anyway…  And I didn’t sleep with them!”  Cato hurries to add.  “Just, other stuff.”  He continues with a bit of his old swagger, “I mean, it’s hard to resist this.” I feel one of his pectoral muscles flex.

What that could possibly be eludes me, given my inexperience, and I don’t bother to ask exactly what “other stuff” consists of. “Right,” I stretch the word out.  “I’ll consider the issue closed and be glad to benefit from your ‘expertise.’  Now, can I nap?”

“Yes,” Cato answers, albeit with a guilty tinge to his voice.

“What’s wrong?”

“Well, there’s one more thing.”

“What on earth could it possibly be?  You’ve already confessed to having,” I pause, unwilling to say ‘sex’ at this point, and settle on an infinitely more prudish word. “ _Relations_ with a girl that I killed months ago, and doing ‘other stuff’ with girls from town.  Just get it out already!  I’ve had a trying enough few weeks!”

“Okay, so don’t kill me.”

At this point, I pull myself out of his arms and sit cross-legged across the bed from him. “When you begin that way, I make no promises.  But I am unarmed.”  I hold up my hands in a gesture of sardonic goodwill.

He sits up and takes my left hand, circling the engagement ring around my finger. “I might have – by complete accident, mind you – spied on you just a few times when you were naked.”  Tufts of his blond hair stick up in disarray, and his blue eyes glint with the most charmingly wicked sincerity that I have to laugh.

“Are you serious?  You are such a pervert!” I gasp out between chuckles.  “When could you possible have seen me naked?”

 Cato gives me an evil grin.  “A master never reveals his secrets.”  With a quick wag of his eyebrows, he pounces – drawing me into a hot kiss.  I tug his shirt over his head, yanking it past his ears, as I shove him back onto the bed.   I straddle his hips, slowly removing my shirt, then leaning to cover his chest in kisses, teasing his nipples with my tongue.  Cato moans in pleasure as I move upward while sliding my hips down.  I meet his lips once more, then run my finger along the waistband of his pants.  The top button of his trousers pops open with ease, and I can tell how much Cato wants me – of all people.  When he could have had the world. It’s amazing.




Unfastening the remaining buttons, I lean down over him, pressing kisses along his sternum and abdomen until my lips reach the waist of his pants. 

“Oh, Kat,” he groans. 

“You like this?”  I lick along his waistline.

Cato moans in assent.

“Really?”  I tug a little on the pants.

His eyes are starting to look desperate.  “Yes!”

“Too bad.”

“What?” Cato practically shouts.

I refasten his trousers over his erection.  “This is what you get for insinuating I shouldn’t wear white at my wedding.”  I roll off, grab the covers, and – with a smile – swaddle myself up for a nap facing away from him. 

Cato lays perfectly still for a moment, then sighs deeply.  He throws an arm over me and pulls me to his chest.  I can feel his erection pressing against my rear; his breath is hot on the crown of my head.  “Sweet dreams,” he grumbles.


	13. Chapter 13

_“leave not the faithful side / That gave thee being, still shades thee and protects. / The Wife, where danger or dishonour lurks, / Safest and seemliest by her Husband staies, / Who guards her, or with her the worst endures.”_ ( _Paradise Lost_ IX.265-69)

 

We arrive in District 12 without fanfare, with only Prim, my mother, and Cato’s mother meeting us at the station.  I suppose that we are suffering from a bit of overexposure, what with the constant televised banquets and speeches.  The citizens of 12 ought to be sick of us by now – I know I certainly am getting frustrated with the publicity. Cato’s father is noticeably absent, either due to more pressing business or disapproval of our sudden engagement.

I can see from the window of the train that my mother and Cato’s mother have their arms crossed – Mrs. Undersee is tapping her foot.  Cato and I share a look of fear.  Neither of us consulted our parents with regard to our public identities – specifically our engagement – thinking only of our survival and preserving the lives of our families rather than respecting their authority.  I think back to Kara Undersee’s cryptic comment as we left for the Victory Tour, to “set us free, mockingjay.”  Her words – now a striking parallel to Plutarch Heavensbee’s – remind me that not only do Cato and I need to talk about my decision to support the rebellion, but that Kara Undersee could very well have some knowledge about it.  That’s going to be an awkward conversation.  Would it be worth it, as she said?  The cost was no longer my body, but the security of my family and friends. 

I embrace my mother and Prim, then greet Mrs. Undersee with a cordial and modest “Hello.”  She draws me into a warm hug that I don’t expect.  “I’m so pleased to see you,” she murmurs in my ear.  “You’ve done so well.”

I can’t help but smile at her, even after everything that I’ve been through.  My mother coughs loudly, drawing our attention. 

“We all need to have a long talk once we get home,” she remarks with more assertiveness than I’ve heard from her in years. “This wedding nonsense needs to be discussed at length.” 

“Yes!”  Prim pipes up.  “Can I see your ring, Katniss?”  I hold out my hand obligingly.

My mother slaps a hand to her forehead.  “That’s not exactly what I meant, Prim.  Home – all of you.”

I have more pressing matters than seeking her approval, however. “Ma, I have some things to take care of.  Do you mind if Cato and I go for a walk?  We haven’t had much privacy over the past few weeks.”

“Later,” she responds firmly, then marches us home like naughty children.

The conversation doesn’t take long.  Clearly Mrs. Undersee approves, and Cato is so stubborn – knowing, as only he does, the stakes in our very immediate and very public marriage – that he only makes a pretense of listening politely before rejecting all of my mother’s arguments, his anger at being told what to do is barely concealed. Even worse for my mother’s case, Prim wholeheartedly supports us.  “Ma, they’ve survived so much.  Let them be happy together!” 

“Think of it this way, Ma,” I continue.  “We might be young, but we have lived through the worst.  And we only did it by working together.  Can you please let it go?”

She looks around the table and realizes that that all of her supposed allies have turned traitor, then lets out a resigned huff of breath. “Fine.  But you two will be living apart until it’s official!”

This time, Cato speaks up in our defense with more restraint. “Mrs. Everdeen, I understand that you want to maintain a certain sense of propriety here. Unfortunately, Kat and I cannot sleep without each other. Remember the nightmares that woke you up every night?” My mother nods. “When we are together, we sleep. No nightmares. Don’t you want your daughter to get through the night without waking up the entire town?”   




Once again, my mother is outmaneuvered.  “All right.  But separate houses until then.  I barely get to see Katniss as it is.”

Cato and I meet eyes, then say, “Agreed.”  I continue, “Can we go for a little walk, then?  We’ve been cooped up on the train all day.”

“As if I could argue against it if I wanted to,” my mother leans back in her chair as though exhausted.  

Cato and I sprint out of the door and rattle down the front steps, falling into a quick pace towards the fence.  We stop momentarily, listening for the buzz of electricity.  For the first time in years, I grab Cato’s arm and step back quickly – the fence hums and vibrates with its live charge. 

Cato’s jaw has dropped.  “What the fuck?  It’s never been on.  I mean, it’s been at least four years since that thing was electrified.”

“It’s meant to keep us in,” I respond dully. 

“Well, where the hell are we supposed to go now?” he grumbles.

“We will find a place.  What about the little meadow on the other side of the school?”

Cato looks disappointed.  “But what about…?”

I suppress a grin, remembering his discomfort at being left unsatisfied earlier in the day.  “Later.  We get to sleep together every night.”

“Yeah, but your mother is going to have her ear pressed to our door.”

“We can stay at your house tonight.  Claim that you don’t fit in my bed or something.” 

“Fine.  Let’s go to the meadow.” Not one to wait on ceremony, Cato takes off at a rapid clip, jogging the entire way to the school. I struggle to keep up, as my legs are shorter and I clearly haven’t been running as much since we won the Games. Once we arrive I collapse into a sweaty heap, spread-eagled in the damp grass and welcoming the approaching chill of twilight.  I rest for a few minutes, gasping for breath, before I pull myself into a sitting position.

“So,” Cato prompts.  “What’s the deal?  What happened that night?”

“I met Plutarch Heavensbee, the head gamemaker.”

Cato’s face registers a good deal of surprise. “I thought he was… y’know.  Not interested in women?”

My eyebrows shoot up.  “I didn’t know anything about him until I met him.  Where did you hear that?”

“One of the Victory Tour dinners.”

“Well, it doesn’t really matter, does it?  We didn’t do anything, remember?”

“Good point.”

I fumble with where to begin.  “It’s hard for me to talk about this.  I mean, I don’t want you to be in any danger, and I know that your position as the mayor’s son might make this difficult for you.  I want to be sure that you won’t tell anyone about this.  Also, I haven’t made up my mind what to do, okay?”

“Okay… but this is starting to sound a lot like my confession from earlier today.”

“Could you believe that it might be worse?”

“For shit’s sake, Kat.  Just tell me what’s going on?  I need to thank this guy for not raping you, and now you’re making it sound like I ought to kill him for something else.”  Cato cracks a few knuckles, an almost comic threat to the absent man.

I clench my jaw, formulating the words in my mind, then take a deep breath.  “They’re planning a rebellion.  Against the Capitol.  And they want my cooperation as their ‘Mockingjay.’  To be their symbol.”  Somehow the words come out much more quickly than I imagined, in little eruptions of the secret I had buried for days.

Cato doesn’t react.  “That’s interesting.”  He rubs his jawline, scraping his blonde stubble in thought.

“Yes.  But I don’t know if I should help.  I mean, do I want Snow dead?  Absolutely.  But do I want to take such a huge risk?  I don’t know.” 

Cato continues to sit in silence, staring off into the distance. 

“Could you at least say something?”  I feel a bit cheated – I expected him to say more than ‘that’s interesting.’  Honestly, it’s the calmest I’ve seen him after a revelation like this.

“Well, I’m obviously surprised,” Cato begins slowly.  “Is this why you wanted Haymitch to start jogging?  Because I could certainly care less if he got back into shape.”

“Yes.  I thought he should be in on it.  Especially now that the fence is electrified, we won’t have a better excuse to congregate together outside of the house.”

“What did you tell Heavensbee?”

“I told him I needed time, and that I wanted to talk to you about it.  We have until the reading of the card.  Obviously I can’t just do this on my own.”

Cato stills, examining my face carefully.  The breeze ruffles my hair and chills me to the bone.  He resumes, “What would you say if I forbid you from getting involved?”

I bristle at that.  “What?  Why would you do that?”

“Because it’s dangerous.”

I balk more at being told what to do than hearing what sounds like his decision.  “So?  And training and hunting illegally for years isn’t?”

“That’s different.  It was only dangerous for you and me.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Katniss, shouldn’t you be telling me something?”

“Like what?”

He rolls his eyes.  “Seriously?  I have to be the one to ask you this?”

Feeling clueless, I ask, “What on earth are you talking about?”

“When was the last time you had your period?”

“That’s none of your business!”

He waits expectantly.

I do a mental count, trying to recall the last time I had my courses.  It had been quite a while, but my period wasn’t always regular due to mediocre nutrition, training, and low body fat.  I never used to have much of a reason to keep track of it – I just knew it would come eventually.  “I don’t know.  Why?”  I pause, confused.  “Wait.  How in the hell have you been keeping track of this?”

“Because we’ve been physical with each other for a while, and you haven’t had your period.  I kept expecting you to have to take a week off at some point.”

My mouth pops open in an O.  “But, I’ve been taking my vitamins.”

Cato raises an eyebrow. “Religiously?  At the same time of the day?”

I bite my bottom lip in guilt, finally answering, “Not really.”

“And we were together before you started taking them again?”

“Yes.”

“Well?”

I feel tears starting to rise along with my panic.  “I can’t possibly be pregnant.  I would know something like that.  Wouldn’t I?”

“I don’t know.  I’m not a woman!  But now you know why you can’t participate in this whole rebellion business.  I’m sure they can do it without you.”  Cato looks almost pleased at the prospect of preventing me from helping, leaning back on his arms with a satisfied grin.  I’m shocked he could even be smiling at the idea.

“But we’re not even sure!” I protest, then turn back to the topic of the rebellion – it’s easier to argue over than me being a knocked-up idiot.  “And we haven’t even really talked about whether or not I can participate.  This can’t possibly be the only reason to say no.”

“It’s enough of a reason for me to say no.  Look, Kat, you can’t even keep up with me running.  You’ve gotten sick a few times when you never throw up.  And you haven’t had your period.  Would you have liked to wait longer and start to get bigger?  Is that seriously what it would have taken for you to figure it out?”

I want to scream.  My breathing speeds up, and I’m starting to feel claustrophobic even in the open meadow.  There’s no way he could be right about a possible pregnancy.  “This is ridiculous. I come out here to see how you feel about rebellion, and all you do is try to give me an excuse to not be a part of it.  You think on your own for a while.  I’m going home to see Prim and eat dinner.  I’ll be at your house by eleven.”  Turning on my heel, I fight down tears that well up unbidden.  I ignore my already tired muscles and break into a sprint, finding comfort in the pain of rewarming my stiffening joints and my ability to continue in spite of it.

Once home, I slam upstairs and strip naked.  I stand in front of the bathroom mirror, examining my figure in profile.  My abdomen is flat, as usual.  Nothing different, nothing changed.  But, looking at my breasts, I see that they’ve gotten slightly fuller.  It’s the rich food from the past weeks, I tell myself. Shaking my head to rid it of such unpleasant thoughts, I shower quickly and prepare for dinner. 

When I enter the kitchen, my mother is alone.  At the sound of my footfall, she looks up in surprise.  Clearly unsure how to proceed after the afternoon’s struggles over the impending wedding, she clears her throat and smiles.  “Did you have a nice walk?”

“Yes,” I say rigidly.  “It was refreshing.” 

“Good!” My mother seems pleased that I responded at all.  “I made stew for dinner.”  She hesitates before asking, “Will you be eating with us tonight? Would you like a bowl?”

“Sure,” I answer.  Glancing around the kitchen, Prim is noticeably absent.  “Where’s Prim?” 

“Gathering some greens for a salad.  She knows the best places.”  My mother turns back to the stove and stirs the stew.

No time like the present to ask.  I can’t wait until it’s too late. “Ma, could you help me with something?”

She looks up once more in surprise.  I can’t remember the last time I asked her for help.  “Of course, dear.  What is it?”

“If I didn’t take those vitamins at the same time every day, would that cause problems?”

“Well, not health wise.  They would do the same thing regardless.  But the contraceptive wouldn’t work as well.  Why do you ask?”  With her physician’s gaze, she assesses me disconcertingly. 

“Ma, I…” I feel my lip quiver and I drop my gaze.  A fat tear races down my cheek.

She says nothing, but strides toward me and gathers me in her arms.  I don’t recoil, although I’m tempted to.  All the slag heap girls that get knocked up and come to my house seeking my mother’s help must be like this.  I can’t be like them.  I can’t take her comfort the way that they do.  I hold myself awkwardly as my mother embraces me.

“Katniss,” she begins as she draws away.  “Have you talked to Cato about this?”

I blush in shame at my ignorance. “He was the one that figured it out.”

“Ah.  Well, let’s make sure he’s right.  After all, men don’t know everything.” My mother digs in the pantry for a moment, then holds out a plastic device that I take gingerly from her.  “I’m guessing you haven’t had your courses in a while.  That can be one indication, but it’s not always a sure sign given the stress you’ve been under.  Take this into the bathroom.  You’ll need to urinate on it then leave it flat on the counter.  It ought to answer a few questions for us, and then we can proceed.”  Her voice transforms into the sure but gentle tones of the medicine woman I hear so often when patients need direction.  I obey silently and return to the kitchen. 

“You know,” she begins, “if this test is negative, you will need to do something more to protect yourself in the future.  If that’s what you want, of course.” 

I blush and nod.  “Yes, Ma.”

She twitches up a corner of her mouth. “I cannot believe that this has to happen for you to listen to me.”

I can’t help but smile. “Me either.”

We wait in a tense silence for a few more minutes. “Well,” she stands up and brushes off her apron. “I’d better go see what it says.”  My mother leaves the kitchen, and I begin gnawing at a snagged cuticle.  My other hand circles Cato’s engagement ring around my finger – another nervous habit I seem to be forming.

When the kitchen door opens again, I shoot out of my chair in anticipation of the results – it’s Prim. 

“Katniss, what’s wrong?”  Prim’s concerned face is ruddy with the chilly air, glowing in her health now that we have enough to eat.

I drop back down into my chair, face pressed into my hand.  “It’s nothing, Prim.  Just waiting for Ma.”

“Okay!” Prim chirps.  She sets the basket of greens on the counter.  “I’m going to wash up.  I’ll be back in a minute.”

No sooner does Prim swing out of the kitchen then my mother returns. “Yes?” I ask hesitantly, afraid to know the answer.


	14. Chapter 14

_“Henceforth I learn that to obey is best”_ ( _Paradise Lost_ XII.561)

 

My mother grins broadly.  “You’re not pregnant.” 

I let out the breath I didn’t know I was holding in, releasing stale air from my lungs. My mother draws me into a tight hug, then holds me at arm’s length. 

“So,” she resumes. “We need to make sure this isn’t a problem again, right?”

“Yes!” I gasp in relief. 

“I think we can both agree that the vitamins aren’t a good option for you.”  I nod, eyes brimming with tears at her practicality and kindness.  “I can give you a shot.  It will prevent you from getting pregnant for a year.  Would you like to talk this over with Cato first?”

Cato.  He will want to know about this, and be a part of the decision as to how to proceed.  “Yes.  Can I get the shot tomorrow?”

“Yes, just don’t do anything tonight.” 

I can’t stop the blush that creeps up my cheeks. “Yes, Ma.”  Concealing my red cheeks with a scarf I grab from the kitchen door, I fly out the back of the house, shooting across the yard to Cato’s.  

I slow down as I approach his front door, trying to smooth any flyaway hairs and arrange my clothes.  Pausing on the stoop, I hear raised voices.  _What the…?_

“…not discussing this!”  I hear Cato’s bass tones.

“We need…” a woman’s voice drops – Cato’s mother?   I peek through the glass of the front door and spy two blond heads across the dining room table from each other, Cato standing and Kara sitting. 

“Absolutely not,” Cato booms.  “And I don’t appreciate…” I can’t hear what he says next, but this conversation needs to stop.  Good grief, they were going to get us all killed!

Not bothering to knock, I yank open the door and stalk in.  “Not. Another. Word,” I say quietly.

Kara Undersee rises from her chair with dignity.  “Don’t worry.  You’re both safe.” She shoots Cato a dark look. “For now,” she adds.

Cato runs his hand through his hair in frustration, then grabs onto the back of his chair.  “Perhaps next time we could talk elsewhere?”

“Of course.  I hope to see you both soon.  Have a good evening.”  She gathers a pale blue scarf from her chair and settles it over her shoulders, then exits silently. 

There is a tense moment before I speak.  “Did I miss anything important?”

Cato’s grip tightens on the edge of the chair.  I hear the polished wood cracking as his knuckles whiten – he avoids my eyes, breathes through his nose, and tosses the chair into the sideboard as if it were nothing. I jump at the sound of the breaking glass and wood, then take a step back from him.

"Are you...?" I begin.

"I am not talking about this," Cato interrupts.

"But," I start again.

“No.  There’s some food in the kitchen,” he says evenly.  His features are a mask of controlled fury. “I'll be back in fifteen minutes.”

“Okay,” I answer uncertainly.  I go to the kitchen to find several loaves of bread, as well as some sliced meat and cheese.  I make myself a sandwich and peer out the kitchen window as I hear Cato stomp down the back stairs.  He picks up a woodcutting axe, a long-handled affair with a wickedly sharp double blade – I didn’t even know we were allowed to own those – and starts hacking away at an old stump in the yard. Swing after swing, he levels blows with the axe, digging deeper and deeper into the same point at the center of the stump as he decimates the bull’s-eye of ancient rings.  

Innumerable minutes pass. I am transfixed by the beauty and terror of it all.  I’m reminded of the fury of his kills in the Cornucopia bloodbath, the pulse of blood and twitch of sinew as he broke necks, threw spears, and sliced tributes open.  I shudder – my appetite is suddenly gone.  

Cato leans on the handle of the axe, the head of the blade on the ground, breathing heavily.  He stands up straight, adjusts his posture, and picks up the axe again.  In one smooth motion, he heaves the axe, sending it spinning toward a tree deep in the back yard.  The axe head finds its home in the heart of an old oak tree, and the tree quivers with the force of the blow.   

I am bound to the window, my breath condensing on the glass as Cato climbs the back steps and comes into the kitchen.  I force myself to shift my thoughts from what I saw in the back yard and focus on what I need to tell Cato, although after my eavesdropping earlier I doubt the news will change his mind about anything.  

He leans against a counter, arms crossed.  I turn toward him; we meet eyes and, without pausing, I cross the distance between us to wrap my arms around his waist.  Ignoring the sweat that has dampened his shirt, I press my ear to his heart.  His pulse hammers against my skin, which is comforting in the way that every beat is a reminder he is alive.   I’m thankful when he reciprocates my embrace a few seconds later, with one hand cradling my head.  With a deep sigh, he presses his lips to the crown of my hair and murmurs in controlled annoyance, “Can’t things just be normal for a while?”

I laugh, “No.  They really can’t.”  Leaning back, I look into his eyes.  “I’m not pregnant.”

Cato’s face is inscrutable.  Finally, he tucks my head back to his chest and simply says, “Okay.”

I’m beyond deciphering his emotions.  He has his old façade on – it’s been a long time since I’ve seen him conceal so much from me.  Perhaps since before the Games. “That’s it?  Okay?”

“Yes.  Can we go to bed now?” he asks dully.  Without waiting for my response, he takes my hand and leads me upstairs.  I follow obediently.  There are no words exchanged as we get into bed, stripping to our shirts and undergarments without any evening routine.

Once under the covers, Cato runs a cold hand under the back of my shirt and presses his forehead to mine.  “I can’t be gentle tonight, Kat.”

My mother’s words run through my mind – I shouldn’t do anything tonight.  But I made Cato suffer earlier today by being uncooperative, and once wasn’t going to hurt.  I lower my eyes and murmur, “I understand.”

With that, Cato crushes me to him, our lips finding each other’s in the darkness.  Our tongues meet in a hot, hard kiss while his fingers dig deep into my ribs.   He pulls me onto my back, dragging my hands above my head and pinning them there. With one hand, Cato yanks my shirt over my head and moves his mouth to my breasts, worshiping each one with his tongue and pebbling my nipples until they are hard.

Nudging his knee between my legs to spread them, Cato uses the pressure of his muscle against my groin to stimulate me, but I still haven’t moved my hands – I cannot touch him yet, nor do I dare to.  I am the one thing he can control tonight, and I will obey. His teeth nip at my neck as I moan in pleasure.  He’s being rough – I will probably have bruises along my wrists tomorrow – but it’s exactly what we both need.  Cato moves to pull off his shirt and underwear, then twitches my underwear off as well.  I can tell that I am already slick with desire for him, but I resist the urge to press against him until he wants me to.  He’s in charge tonight – he needs the control, and I need him to control me. 

Grabbing my wrists again and stretching me out along the bed, Cato gazes at my body hungrily. The wadded sheets jut my abdomen forward. He ducks down to my ear and whispers, “I wanted you to be pregnant.  I _want_ you to be pregnant.  I want your body to be ripe with my children.  Is that wrong?”

Thoughts flash through my mind.  _We are too young_ and _I would be a terrible mother_ and _I am a murderer_ alternate with the images of a blond boy with gray eyes, a little girl with dark bouncing curls and eyes like the sky.  “No,” I breathe.  “It’s not wrong.”

Cato positions himself above me and drives his entire length into my body, we find a hurried, frenetic rhythm of pleasure and – what feels like seconds later – I find my release as my vision clouds with purple and red bursts of color, transforming the white ceiling into a veritable rainbow as I gaze at the ceiling.  He releases shortly after, pouring himself into me and sighing at the sensation.  He collapses next to me.

“I’m sorry,” he starts. 

“Don’t be sorry,” I interrupt him.  “I’d rather we do this than you beating a tree stump to a pulp.”

“That’s probably never going to change.  My mother says I need to work on my temper.  And my impulse control.  And my desire to kill things.”  Cato’s eyes narrow at the mention of his mother.

“Your mother should know that your temper and impulse control make you what you are.  The last one… maybe you could work on that one.”

“So you’re not pregnant?”  He sounds so disappointed.

“No.  Well,” I consider out loud, “I suppose I could be now. Ma told me not to do anything tonight.” 

“Really?  So you could get pregnant from tonight?” Cato sounds almost hopeful at the idea.

I shrug a shoulder.  “Really, it’s not something I want to happen right now.  Is that okay with you?”

“What do you mean? That we have to stop having sex?”

“No.  That Ma would give me a shot and then I wouldn’t get pregnant for a year.”

Cato is silent. 

“I don’t know what else to do,” I continue.  “I mean, aren’t you afraid that our kids would be reaped?  We’re setting them up to have an awful future.”

“I never really thought about that,” he finally says.  “You know that they would be targeted.”

“Exactly.   It’s one of the reasons I thought I would never had children.”

Cato yawns.  “Can we talk about this tomorrow?  I’m exhausted.”  It’s a perfunctory end to a series of conversations that still need to be held.

“Uh, okay.”  And here I thought we were going to make a decision tonight.  I slip out of bed and use the bathroom, washing away what I can of Cato’s seed and preparing for bed.  By the time I return to the bedroom, Cato is laying on his back, snoring softly.  His hands are balled up in fists, crushing the tops of the sheets into wads of fabric.  I crawl under the covers and, too afraid to touch him when he’s at rest, tuck my hands between my knees.  Only then do I realize that I still don’t know what happened with Cato’s mother.  I quash my discomfort at the idea of her being involved in the rebellion - that I might have been a pawn, watched by both the Capitol and the rebels this whole time - and think of the feeling of Cato’s arms around me instead. Sleep comes shortly thereafter, followed by dreams of beautiful children.


	15. Chapter 15

_"High matter thou injoinst me, O prime of men, / Sad task and hard, for how shall I relate / To human sense th' invisible exploits/ Of warring Spirits; how without remorse / The ruin of so many glorious once / And perfet while they stood; how last unfould / The secrets of another World, perhaps / Not lawful to reveal yet for thy good/ This is dispenc't" _ ( _Paradise Lost_ V.563-71).

  


The next morning I wake suddenly out of a sound sleep, my eyes opening too quickly in the morning sun only to find myself blinded.  Rolling over to face away from the window, I reach to Cato’s side of the bed only to find cold, rumpled sheets.  I pull myself up on my elbows and glance around the room for signs of life – the discarded clothes from last night are gone, Cato is nowhere to be found.  Pausing to listen, there is no sound from anywhere in the house except the quiet hum of electrical generators turning on the heat.  

Wincing as I stretch my joints, which are sore and stiff after the previous night’s activities, I stumble out of bed to the window and squint outside.  Dazzling snow glistens back at me, shining in icy sheets in the sun.  My breath condenses on the window as I lean my forehead against the glass.  I can feel the window pulse with the jarring wind. An early snow and freezing breeze – with the electrified fence, this will make life in 12 all the more difficult.  

Outside I see a figure moving swiftly across the snow banks and know it can be only one person – Cato is making a broad sweep through the neighborhood, then out toward the Seam.  He’s started running without me… without Haymitch!  He was supposed to wait for us so we could talk through this rebellion thing. 

Angry at my own laziness and more irritated with Cato for not waking me up, I throw on the clothes I wore the night before and run home to change.  Pounding up the stairs, I shout a quick hello to my mother and Prim, dig through my closet for something warm enough to wear, then shoot back out the front of the house.  Cato’s tracks are still visible in the icy heaps – thank goodness it stopped snowing.  I head to Haymitch’s house and bang loudly on the front door, partially out of irritation and partially because I know it will take a cannon to wake the man up.  No one answers, but I also don’t hear the characteristic tumbling of bottles to the floor that usually marks Haymitch’s movements.

“Haymitch!” I shout.  “We’ve gotta go!  Put on some pants!”  I wait a moment, then pound on the door again.  “Haymitch?  I know you’re in there!”  I stand on the porch and shiver for another minute.  It seems Haymitch is being especially obstinate about being woken up today.  Forgoing my more polite efforts to get Haymitch out of the house, I bound through snowdrifts to the back door, which he sometimes forgets to lock.  Before I can make it around to the back, I see a side window opened a crack.  Shoving the window up, I scramble through the opening and slam it shut behind me.  Haymitch’s house is freezing cold – he doesn’t seem to even have the heat on – but the cold has prevented the sour smell of stale liquor and body odor from being overly noticeable. 

My breath forms icy puffs as I hustle through the house to the living room, where Haymitch usually passes out.  Oddly, he’s not on the sofa, which might explain why he didn’t hear my pounding on the door.  I call through the house, “Haymitch, this isn’t funny!  Get some clothes on – let’s go!”  My voice echoes through the empty hallways.  Nothing stirs. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” I mutter.  I stomp up the stairs and begin opening doors, all the while becoming more convinced that Haymitch needs to hire a housekeeper – his house is a mess.

After swinging open the final bedroom door, I can see that Haymitch is not home, even though it’s still shy of eight in the morning.  Then it hits me – Cato probably already woke up Haymitch and now they’re meeting without me.  Realizing that I have been wasting time trying to find Haymitch, I pound down the stairs and down the porch, stopping only to judge the direction of the tracks before setting off toward the east end of the Seam.  I sprint into town and skid to a halt when I notice that the foot traffic in the Seam has transformed the easily spotted tracks in the snow into murky grey slush – impossible to follow.  I slap a mittened hand to my forehead and groan in frustration at losing them.  Cato did this on purpose.

The cold starts to seep into my bones as the wind picks up, and I recognize the hollowed-out feeling of hunger beginning to pulse through my midsection.  The scent of freshly baked bread catches my attention, clearing the smell of Haymitch’s house from my mind.  A few coins jingle in my pocket, and I cross the Seam briskly heading toward the merchants’ shops and the bakery. 

I haven’t been to the bakery since before the Games.  Prim or my mother shop for me, and – knowing Cato’s irritation with the baker’s son – I generally avoid going in.  The thought of Cato’s face, scowling in anger and twirling a knife at the idea of competition from Peeta Mellark, makes me at once apprehensive and excited.  Cato intentionally left me at home this morning, once again circumventing a difficult conversation that must be had. Going to the bakery will be a small bit of vengeance for his interference.

A bell rings as I push through the door.  I focus immediately on the center glass case, which is packed with cakes, cookies, and buns.  They glisten in the lights of the shop, and my mouth fills with saliva at the sight.  I still haven’t gotten used to the idea that I can buy whatever food I want, that I don’t simply have to buy what is cheap and filling.  I spot a knotted piece of fried dough, covered with a maple glaze and sugary crystals, and approach the glass ready to press my hands on the warm surface. 

“Can I get you anything?”  I blink in surprise and jerk my hands back before I can touch the glass – I hadn’t noticed anyone in the store and feel as though I've been caught doing something naughty.  Looking up from the pastry, I meet a pair of curious blue eyes.  The young man behind the counter is the one Cato volunteered for at our reaping last year.  This must be Peeta Mellark.  He’s a handsome boy, and I can see why Cato would be irritated at his interest.  I blush instinctively.

“Uh, yes.  A cheese bun?” I begin to fumble, my voice rising in a question as my nerves stretch. A wave of guilt comes over me. I strip off my mittens as I reach in my pocket for the coins.  As I pull them out to count, I realize I don’t have quite enough change to get a cheese bun.  Damn.  “Never mind.  I don’t have quite enough money with me.”

“But you were looking at that doughnut, right?”  Peeta’s eyebrows are raised in inquiry.

I blush again – I can’t even order a pastry correctly these days. “Yes.  It’s beautiful.  But I don’t have quite enough money for that either.

“Oh, it’s okay.” Peeta brushes off my concerns with a wave of his hand. “Here – it’s on the house.”  He scoops up a cheese bun and drops it in a bag, then takes the pastry and wraps it in waxed paper.  He holds them over the counter, and I’m too shocked to take them.

“But, I can’t pay for them.”

“Your mother buys bread from us all the time.  I’m sure my ma overcharges you anyway.”  He shrugs and smiles at me.

“Well, will you at least take the money I’ve got?” I hold the coins out to him.

Peeta gives me a quirky grin and simply says, “Your money’s no good here.”  He gestures again with the bag, which I hesitantly take.  “Don’t forget your doughnut.  They’re best when they’re warm.”

Our fingers touch as I take the pastry from him, and a little jolt of static electricity zaps our hands. I jerk back, slightly panicked at the contact.  His vision shifting from our fingers to my face, Peeta has a vague smile on his face. “Thank you,” I respond quickly, then turn toward the door.  The jingle of the bell is an oddly cheerful contrast to my sudden fear. “You’re welcome,” I hear him call behind me as the door shuts.

Once outside in the cold, I realize that my hands are full and I have no place to set down my bread to put on my gloves.  Walking back toward the Seam, my knuckles beginning to chafe with the cold, I see a group of children huddled around a burning barrel, jockeying for the best position to warm their hands in the flames.  Old pieces of wood hang over the edge of the barrel – no District 12 coal to keep District 12 children warm.

I approach the group of children, seeing that two little girls have been shoved away from the fire and huddle together to stay warm.  The hollowness in my stomach is replaced with an ache in my throat, as I think of Prim and me slowly starving after my father’s death.  The girls are too cold to notice my approach, so I call to them quietly, “Hello there.”  Their faces are white in the cold, making their eyes even more startlingly grey.  “Are you hungry?” I ask. One girl nods.  I hand her my cheese bun. She is too shocked to eat it. “What’s your name?

The other girl says, “Loreen. This ‘ere is Sheera.”

I hold up the pastry.  “Are you hungry, Loreen?”  She nods as well.  I hand her the doughnut.  Loreen tears into the pastry, swallowing it far too quickly.  Taking Loreen's cue, Sheera begins to bite into the cheese bun, and sighs in pleasure at the taste.

I stick my hands in my pockets, feeling the pair of mittens and the coins Peeta had refused to take. I pull them out of my pocket and offer them to the girls. “Here.  I only have one pair of mittens, but this money ought to buy another pair.” 

Sheera eyes me skeptically.  “Are you sure you won’t just say we stole them from you later?”

Loreen elbows Sheera in the ribs.  “Don’t you know who this is, Sheera?  It’s the mockingjay!  She wouldn’t pull no Capitol funny business on us.”  I am jolted by the name “mockingjay” – only Plutarch has really called me that.

Sheera’s eyes widen in disbelief.  “I’m so sorry ma’am.  I didn’t know.”

“It’s all right.  You’re smart to not trust strangers. Take these,” I hand over the gloves and coins.

“Thank you,” the girls murmur in disbelief. 

“You’re welcome.” I smile at them and watch them walk away, splitting the gloves between themselves.  I turn away quickly, only to run my face smack into a hard chest.  Pain erupts along the bridge of my nose, and I stumble back a few steps, seeing stars and eyes watering.  I wipe my hand above my lip and examine it, expecting to see blood.  A thin smear of reddish brown and snot is streaked along my index finger.  I pinch my nose to stop the flow of blood and look up to see who I ran into – Cato.

“Hello, Katniss,” he says in a low voice.  He rarely says my full name – something must be wrong. Cato doesn’t even ask if my nose is all right.

“Hello yourself. What were you doing right behind me?  Couldn’t you have at least tapped me on the shoulder?”  My voice is nasal with the pressure on the bridge of my nose.

Cato ignores my question.  “I saw you go into the bakery.  I thought I made it clear how I felt about you going there.”

I sigh, still holding onto my nose. With his abandoning me this morning and showing no concern about my bloody face, I’m past irritated.  The hell if I’m going to cooperate with him. “A girl needs to eat,” I respond flippantly.

“There’s food at the house.”

“Really,” I say sarcastically.

“Yes.  You didn’t have to go out.”

I stare at him malevolently over my fingers.  “That’s funny.  Because as far as I remember, we were _all_ supposed to go for a run this morning.”

Cato’s face remains unchanging and expressionless, as if carved from stone. “You could use the rest.”

His presumption strikes a nerve deep inside me.  “No, _you thought_ I could use the rest.  Meaning, _you thought_ that I didn’t need to come. And that _you think_ that I don’t have my own opinions about things!”  My volume rises with each sentence in fury.  In my anger, I have taken my hand away from my face, and now blood is trickling down my upper lip, becoming cold and viscous in the icy wind.

Cato moves forward with his hand extended to wipe the blood away.  I step back before he can touch me and hiss, “Don’t you dare.  Not when you haven’t even asked if I’m okay.  And especially not when you didn’t even apologize for causing it in the first place.”

His eyes narrow in anger at my rejection. He opens his mouth to retort, but then notices the small crowd gathering and their furtive glances in our direction and clamps his mouth shut.  With blood running down my face and heated words being exchanged, people probably think that he hit me.  In 12, it’s fully within a husband’s unspoken rights to beat his wife, but never in public.  The Seam women with split lips and loose teeth were looked upon with pity, but no one ever intervened to protect them because their husbands didn’t hit them in full view of other people.  It was just easier to believe that a woman had hit herself in the eye with a door or fell down the stairs than to interfere with private marital politics.  Such was not the case in public disputes.  Then it became an issue of assault, and Peacekeepers got involved.  Anyone fighting could be locked up in the stocks or, in the cases of extreme injury, executed.

“Go home,” Cato orders. 

“No,” I respond flippantly.  “You don’t own me – you can’t tell me what to do.”

“Katniss, you are practically my wife.  You need to go home _now_.”

Unwilling to relent, I respond lightly, “No, I don’t think so.”  An idea pops into my head. “I’m going to go visit your mother.”

“What?” Cato keeps his voice flat, but more cracks in his façade are starting to show.  The vein above his right eye is starting to show – it’s the look he gets when he is about to throttle something. He balls up his hands, cracking a knuckle.

I wipe under my nose with my hand, smearing the blood across my mouth and cheek, fully knowing the visual effect the blood has. I’m sure I look like I’ve either been beaten or just committed a murder.  Either way, I expect it’s quite the spectacle. For as much as I am smaller than he is, I have a captive audience and a bloody face – fragility is simply a matter of context.  “Yup.  I’m going to see your mother.  I’ll be home for lunch.”  I turn on my heel and sprint away toward the mayor’s house, much lighter on my feet than I was yesterday with anger fueling my speed.  There’s no sound of footfall behind me, and I know Cato hasn’t pursued me.

The mayor’s house is a five-minute walk from the Seam, on a perpendicular axis from the merchants’ town - close enough to monitor both without associating with either.  I had been inside Cato’s childhood home only twice – once when my family received the medal for my father’s death, and once when Cato forgot some training equipment when I was thirteen.  Both times, I had waited silently in the foyer, not touching anything, examining the elegant curving staircases, rich carpets, and delicately arranged flowers, while others conducted their business.

The house is still as imposing as I remember it, with its red brick and scrubbed white woodwork.  It must cost a fortune to keep a house like this clean being so close to the mines.  The entire house is several stories tall, with glass windows that gleam in the bright winter sunshine.  Such a home for three people – dozens of people could fit in their house.  A Peacekeeper stops me before I can ring the doorbell, examining my face carefully before realizing who I am.  “Miss Everdeen,” he begins gruffly, “please wait for me to announce you.”

“Of course.  I’m here to see Mrs. Undersee.”

“Yes, ma’am.”  He speaks quietly into an invisible mouthpiece while keeping an eye on my bloody face, waits a moment, then touches his ear.  The Peacekeeper nods to me. “Go right in.”

The doors open and the sweet smell of cinnamon, vanilla, and cloves rush on a wave of warmth.  A tremor rolls through me as my body begins to adjust to the heat after my time outside.

“Katniss, dear!” I see Kara Undersee, immaculately clad in a white sweater embroidered with tiny glittering snowflakes, gray wool pants, and silvery heels, running down the stairs.  Her face is stricken with shock. “What happened to you?”

I wait until the door has shut behind me before responding.  “It’s not as bad it looks. Can we talk?”

She draws me into an embrace, bloody nose and all, then says, “Let’s get you cleaned up first.  We can chat when you don’t look such a fright.”  Kara guides me to a washroom, where she wipes my face, inspects my nose, and nods once she determines there will be no long-term damage. “You’ll be fine in a week.  It’s just slightly swollen, not broken.” She hasn't seemed to notice the smears of blood on her white sweater, which will probably bear the only lasting evidence of my gore-covered face.

I smile weakly.  “Good.  I’d hate to think about my nose being all messed up for the wedding pictures.”

Kara smirks and says knowingly, “I doubt it would make any difference to Cato.”  I lose what little smile I have at the mention of his name.  “What is it dear?”

I am too paranoid to have a conversation in her house.  Much like my home in the Victor’s Village, I am sure the entire mayor’s house has been wired. “Can we go for a walk?  The snow is so lovely.”

“Of course. I would love some fresh air.”  We return to the foyer, where she pulls knee-high black boots out of the closet, along with a long black jacket and scarf.  Kara dresses quickly and gestures to the Peacekeeper to open to the door.

Once outside, I notice that the sunshine has faded into a bleaker gray sky.   “I think it’s going to snow again,” I begin. 

“Yes.  It will make things quite difficult here,” Kara responds neutrally.

“Yes, it will,” I agree. We walk on silently but for the snow crunching under our boots. “I want to ask you something, but you don’t have to answer.”

“All right.”

“What were you and Cato talking about last night? I need to know the truth.”

Kara smiles ruefully.  “I would have loved to talk about this with you long ago, but he forbid me.”  She stops and faces me, as one long strand of her blond hair breaks loose and whips in the wind.  “Are you sure you want to know this?  All of it?”

“Yes,” I say determinedly. 

“It begins almost twenty-five years ago..."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for the hits, kudos, and comments. Your thoughtfulness is so kind. Please don't be afraid to ask questions or voice concerns - I'm starting to go pretty far from the original THG track, and I appreciate any direction.


	16. Chapter 16

_“What in me is dark / Illumin, what is low raise and support; / That to the highth of this great Argument / I may assert Eternal Providence, / And justifie the wayes of God to men”_ ( _Paradise Lost_ I.22-26).

 

“I was living in District 2 with my family, but had not been chosen to train for the games.  No,” Kara looks wistfully out at the trees, “that was my sister. Eve was eighteen and had lived with the trainers since she was six.  I wanted to train, but my parents believed that sacrificing one child was enough.

"I was a politician’s daughter and would make my family proud through other means – I was groomed for this life before I knew what it meant to be married into privilege and understood the obligations that went along with it.  It’s Cato’s father, by the way, who is related to Enobaria.”  Kara furrows her brow at a distant memory, then says with a fair degree of sarcasm, “You can see how having a victor in the family can make a difference.

"Eve would bring us glory through the Games.  Similarly, she had been groomed for it long before she understood what the Games really meant.” Kara smiles down at me. “Now, before you go and think that I’m terribly old, I was eleven at the time of her Games, which were – incidentally – the same year as your mentor’s: the Quarter Quell.”

I nod in understanding, now calculating the math.  Mrs. Undersee can be no older than thirty-six or thirty-seven, and – unlike the hardened women from the Seam who are in their thirties – looks as though she is no more than twenty-five.

“Now,” she resumes her story, “I only saw my sister once each year for a week.  And with each passing year, Eve became more distant from us, more abrupt, tense.  The trainers were slowly tightening her strings, tuning her into something sharp and deadly.”  Kara pauses.  “Much like you with your bow and arrows, my dear.”

I wait silently, not knowing if this is an insult or a compliment.

“Unlike your situation, I could see that this training was not a matter of helping tributes to survive, but to help them become animals.  She was being tightened to where – in the right place and at the right time – she would snap.  On her visits home, Eve was… well, not disobedient, but challenging.  She wouldn’t speak very often and, when she did, it was an explosion of anger and frustration.  Training was destroying her, as it did many, I’m sure.”

Kara stares at the banks under the pine trees, examining the holes marring the perfect icy gloss by the branches’ heavy drops of snow. “She was always in control when it came to the physical side of training, but when it came to every other sort of interaction, Eve was a disaster.  Even then, as a child, I knew she could be a victor, but she would be an extremely damaged victor.”

Reaching for my ungloved hand and taking it between her mittens, Kara says quietly, “We had no idea what they were doing to her at the time.  To harden her.  To control her.”  She stops.  “But you know, don’t you Katniss?”

I yank my hand out of Kara’s and make no attempt to conceal my shock. “They were selling those kids?  Are you serious?”

Kara doesn’t answer my question, but her meaningful gaze is telling enough. “The summer before her reaping, Kara came home one final time.  I gave her the mockingjay pin and told her that I hoped she would win.  Obviously, she didn’t.”  She sighs deeply. 

“That night, Eve told me what had been done to her and why – because tributes can’t afford to be afraid of death.  Didn’t even cry as she told me.  I don’t think she wanted to win at all.”  Kara looks away, trying covertly to wipe away a tear.  “And then when she volunteered, I saw the mockingjay pin on her dress and knew that she remembered me in spite of the madness and abuse.

“Haymitch is smarter than Eve was.  He has a long-boiling anger, quick wits, and an ability to plan.  He killed her personally, and I don’t hold it against him… even though it was an awful way to die.  In many ways, it’s probably for the best that Eve was killed – she never could have taken a lifetime of sexual abuse.  She would have done something terrible… I don’t know, killed herself or someone else.

“I know that Haymitch was punished for not cooperating, as well.  You know, in the same way that Eve was treated?  Since then, I have found out that almost every victor has been sold the way that some of District 2’s least controllable tributes were – but at least most of the other victors were adults.  Or close enough.  The Capitol raped these children that were being trained to kill.  And if there’s one way to make sure that someone goes crazy in the arena and puts on a good show, it’s that.”  Kara stops speaking, her previously measured tones wavering with emotion.

I think back to Clove, to Alex, and their controlled rage and insanity that burbled forward in acts of relentless violence.  I shuddered at the thought of their treatment.  “I don’t understand, though,” I say.  “Why would Cato be so mad with you about this?  It’s not like you can help it.”

Kara gives me a determined look.  “Oh, but I am responsible – every one of us who stands by and allows it to happen is responsible.   Every one of us who isn’t willing to lay down and die to stop these games is responsible.  I am a politician’s daughter who was forced into a marriage I didn’t want.  Who has a sister who was raped, killed, and used as a memory and a threat to inspire other children to work harder at killing each other.  Who has a beautiful son who has become a victor, but who – without you – would have faced a life of sexual servitude until he is too old, too drunk, or too insane to put up with it any longer.” 




Resetting her posture, Kara draws herself up to her fullest height and gazes icily at me. “And, more than that, I have the power and the resources to make change.  But until I saw what you did in the arena – the way you challenged the Capitol – I knew that I wasn’t going to be enough.  It broke my heart that Cato wanted to be a victor, because I knew what was waiting for him.  More abuse, more rape, more violence.  You kept him safe and returned him to me undamaged. Even more than that, you have provided the necessary spark to take this tyrannical government down.  You are a miracle that we need for our cause – our Mockingjay.”

With ever passing sentence, my jaw drops a little more.  I stare at her in disbelief.  “Are you… are you serious?  You’re a rebel?”

“Yes.”

My legs tremble and threaten to give out.  I haven’t eaten all day, lost a bit of blood, and with this news… I collapse hard on my rear, the snow providing little cushion.

“Oh, my dear!” Kara kneels down next to me.  “I fear I’ve given you quite a turn.  This is precisely why Cato didn’t want me to tell you.”

“Wait, Cato _knows_?” I practically shout.

“Lower your voice.  Secrets don’t remain secret long at that volume.”  She sits down next to me, ignoring the chill of the snow underneath us.  “Cato has known since you both returned from the Games. I simply couldn’t keep it a secret from him, especially knowing that you two come as a pair and we would need his cooperation to have you involved.  He didn’t know everything – I knew that you were being punished, although not the precise nature of it, nor the potential outcome.”

I fume inwardly.  No keeping secrets – good grief, Cato and I both managed to ignore that promise.  

Kara begins to protest at my expression. “Katniss, you can’t be angry with him. Cato’s sole interest is protecting you and keeping you safe.  And after all, you found out about it, didn’t you?”

I try to shrug off her comments, wanting to respond acidly about the way I had to find out, the mental torture of believing that one would be violated, but not when or where.  Of keeping even more secrets and feeling the weight smothering me every day.  I take a moment to assess the damage of the day – my nose hurts, my rear hurts, and now my head hurts.

Bracing my head in my hands, I can feel her stare nudging me to speak. “I have a decision to make, Mrs. Undersee.  I think you know it’s a difficult one.  I have a family, but I don’t have means the way that you do.  I can’t protect them the way that Cato can protect me."

Kara nods. “I understand.  We’re all waiting for your answer.  By the reading of the card?”

“I’ll decide by then, regardless of what Cato wants.”  I get up and dust the snow off my pants, checking by touch for bruises along my backside.

Kara rises as well. “Good.  Please feel free to come and talk to me any time.  I’m afraid I cannot tell you any more details about our plans until you agree.”  We begin a slow walk back toward the Seam.

“That’s understandable. I’ll be sure to come over if I have any questions.  Thanks for the chat.” 

“You’re welcome,” Kara says.  “Oh, and Katniss?”

“Yes?”

“I would be happy to pass a message to whomever you like.  I know how difficult it can be to send mail these days.”  _I will send the message to Plutarch Heavensbee if you choose not to participate_.

“I appreciate your kindness.  I wasn’t sure how to contact all my friends.”  With that, I turn and retreat to the Victor’s Village, leaving Kara Undersee with the nightmares of her sister’s death and her visions of what Panem could become.

***

Upon my arrival at home, my hunger overwhelms me. Forgetting my bruised rear end and puffy face, I raid the pantry and icebox, searching for snacks and leftovers of last night’s stew.  Prim happens upon me at the kitchen table, gnawing on a slightly stale roll while holding a spoon at mouth’s height.

“Katniss! What happened to you?” she cries.

“What?” I garble out through a mouthful of bread.

“You have a black eye!” Prim hurries to examine my face, then calls for my mother.  “Ma! Katniss is going to need something for her black eye!”  She scrutinizes the bridge of my nose as I chew unconcernedly.  “And a splint for her nose!  It shouldn’t be too bad,” Prim reassures me.

“What?” I hear my mother shout down the stairs.  “I’ll be right down.”  A few minutes of Prim’s poking and prodding later, and my mother enters the kitchen with a small kit.  “Well done, Prim.  Definitely a bruised nasal bone.”  My mother peers up my nostrils – extremely inconvenient while trying to eat stew – and pokes around with a cotton swab. I wince as she hits tender spots.  “And there’s probably going to be some inflammation of the sinuses, but no permanent damage,” she concludes.

“Kara Undersee said as much,” I mumble through a bite of bread. 

“You went to see Mrs. Undersee?” My mother’s surprise is evident.  “What for?”

My brain stalls as I think of a good excuse – other than spiting Cato, of course. “She was the closest person I could think of to wash off my face.” 

“Ah,” my mother says.  “Well, you’re going to be fine. I’ll put this splint on your nose for today, just to keep the swelling contained.  Cinna would be furious if he came to see you in two weeks and you had a massive bruise.”

“Two weeks?” I squeak out.  “It’s really that soon?”

“Yes.  I just got the call today.  They’re going to take pictures of you in some wedding dresses before the reading of the card.”

“Apparently they’re voting on which one you’re going to wear for the wedding,” Prim pipes up.

I sigh deeply.  “Is there anything I can take for aches?  I fell on my rear in the snow.”

My mother tries to conceal a smile. “Of course.  Here are some pills – why don’t you finish eating, take them, and then go take a nap?”

Her suggestion sounds too good to pass up.  I finish the stew, take the pills, and head upstairs.  Stripping off the clothes and leaving them where they fall, I feel myself getting more tired and woozy by the second.  Bed.  Bed is where I need to be. Need to go to bed.  The sheets are cool on my hot face.  My last thought is how I like the scent of laundry soap.


	17. Chapter 17

_“They eat, they drink, and in communion sweet”_ ( _Paradise Lost_ V.637)

 

When I wake up later in the afternoon, I feel a pair of arms around me. 

“I know you’re awake,” I feel the rumbling tones of Cato against my back. _Damn_. “I can feel the change in your breathing.”

I twist to face him, and his eyes go directly to my bruises and splinted nose.  “Shit, Kat.  I am so sorry.”  He raises a hand to touch them – I flinch instinctively and he stops moving. 

Closing my eyes, I sigh. “I’m fine. No lasting damage – I’ve heard it several times now.”

“I should have let you know I was there.  I was just so angry seeing you coming out of the bakery.”  He holds me tighter, and I squirm in pain.  “What?”

Knowing that the admission is only going to cause me embarrassment, I purse my lips and blurt out, “I fell on my rear, too.”

Cato holds himself rigidly for a moment, but I can feel his laughter coming.  Chuckles, then guffaws, to downright howls.  He lets me go and rolls on his back as he laughs.  “Oh man, I wish I could have been there to see it!” 

He’s taking far too much pleasure in the idea, considering what I had to hear to fall like that.  I glare at him.  “It’s not funny! It actually hurts!”

Cato tries to control his laughter, letting out a few final chuckles.  “Your face right now, though – it’s exactly what you looked like when you fell in the forest that day when we met.” He turns on his side and tucks a finger under my chin.  “It makes me love you even more.”  The tender expression on his face is quite the contrast to the cold fury emanating from him earlier in the day. He kisses my nose gently.

It’s hard to be mad at him when he’s in this mood.  “You’re not entirely forgiven, you know,” I resume an air of haughtiness, trying to preserve my anger. 

“I can’t believe you went to see my mother,” he says with exasperated humor.

“I can’t believe that you tried to _order_ me to go home.  And leave me out of the conversation with Haymitch. And not tell me everything that you know about your mother.  And that you yelled at me for buying pastries!”

Cato shoots out of bed, his sweetness replaced instantly with wrath. “You didn’t even _buy_ them!  That piece of shit _gave_ them to you to start currying your favor!”

I’m too angry to get mad at him for ignoring my reference to his mother. “‘Currying your favor’?  What does that even mean?” I shout back.

“He’s trying to woo you!”  Cato runs his hand through his hair, looking more and more like a demented porcupine.

“I agreed to marry you!” I spit.  “What else do you want?  Me – housebound and pregnant?  Do you need to mark me like a dog would a bush so that everyone knows I belong to you?”

“You are _mine_! I need you to _obey_ me!” Cato hisses, arms akimbo like a bossy parent.

Speechless, I need a second to gather my wits.  “‘Obey’?  Did you seriously just say that?”

“Kat, that’s not what I meant…” Cato trails off as I interrupt him.

“What did you mean, then?  Hmm?”  I sneer.  “Please enlighten me, because my poor female brain obviously can’t make the connections.”

He stalks around the room breathing hard before finally shouting, “Shit! We’ve been engaged for a whopping total of what? Three days? And we’re screaming at each other?”  He punches the air and braces his arms against the wainscoting of the window, staring out at the gray sky.  I plop down on the edge of the bed in despair, letting out a little squeak at the pain of my bruise.  Cato rushes over and gathers me up in his arms.  “Are you okay?”

“Yes,” I respond sullenly.  I enjoy the feeling of our closeness for a moment, the warmth and security of it, before asking, “What’s wrong with us?”

Cato takes a deep breath.  “It’s not us.”

“How can it not be us? We’re the ones fighting.”

“Yes, but we’re fighting about things that have almost nothing to do with us.”

“Really?” I ask skeptically.  “You think that your little display earlier had nothing to do with _us_?”

“Okay, that does.  But…” Cato looks away sheepishly.

“But what?” I demand.

“I’m possessive.  I meant what I said – not about obeying, but about you being mine. I don’t share.”

I feel slightly guiltier for going into the bakery earlier, knowing what Cato’s reaction would be, but not guilty enough to admit I had done it on purpose.  “I know.  But you have to know that I can’t do anything about that.”

“I know,” Cato admits.  He pauses before bursting out, “But fuck that guy for constantly trying to talk to you!”  Cato’s eyes narrow, and as he tucks my head under his chin I can practically hear all of the ways he’s planning to hurt Peeta without my finding out. 

“You leave him alone,” I admonish.

“What?” Cato blusters.  “I have no idea…”

“Stop,” I interrupt.  “I know you too well.  No unfortunate accidents.  You leave him alone.  He’s done nothing to you.”

Cato sets his jaw.  “He’s up to something with you.”

“You’ve talked to him maybe twice?  How on earth do you know that?  Stay away from him.”

“Fine.  If you agree to stay away from him, too.”

I bristle at his daring. “Oh, no.  You don’t get to order me around.  The only reason you need to stay away from that kid is because you’re going to hurt him.  I haven’t done anything wrong here – I just bought a pastry.”

“…gave you a…” Cato mutters under his breath.

“What’s that?” I ask sharply.

“Nothing,” he answers resentfully.

“Good.  Time for dinner?”

***

The next week passes uneventfully.  The snow continues, preventing many of the deliveries from out of the District, including the packages to 12’s citizens from our winnings, from being delivered.  More people begin to drop in the streets, but it is a sight most of us were used to.  My mother grows despondent at her inability to help the weakening health of people who simply need food.  With neither greens nor meat from beyond the fence, she and Prim see only the futility of the situation.

Cato and I resume something of our old standoff – we say nothing offensive to each other, sleep together, make love, but the intimacy of sharing our thoughts has been stifled. My bruises heal quickly thanks to the medicine that Cinna sends once he hears of my black eye, but the other hurts remain – I have forgotten neither Cato’s anger nor his mother’s story. I return to the bakery twice: once on an errand for my mother to buy bread, another time to purchase a pastry for myself.  I tell myself that it’s not to defy Cato’s wishes, but because I ought to be able to go where I please.  And I desperately need the alone time.  The snow often keeps me trapped at home, and getting out of the house means I go to Cato’s.  I haven’t seen Haymitch at all.   Any time I go out on my front porch, the lights in his house switch off.  He’s home, but he’s not answering. We haven’t been running at all, not that my rear could handle the exertion.




The first time I went to buy bread, Mrs. Mellark sold it to me – and a stale and expensive loaf was it ever.  Peeta was right.  His mother did overcharge us.  The next time, Peeta is at the counter and looks thrilled that I am there.

“What can I get you?” he asks eagerly.

“I never got to eat that pastry.  I’d like to buy one.”  I made sure to bring the proper amount of money this time, so Cato couldn’t accuse me of accepting a gift from Peeta.

“Of course.  But we didn’t make that particular kind today. Are you sure you don’t want to try a few and pick the one you want?”

Looking at the case, I can see that there are several tempting desserts.  The doughnut Peeta gave me last time is, as he says, not there.  “Uh, sure.”

“Great!  Which ones do you want to try?”  As I point to three separate pastries, Peeta is quick to find the best ones and pull them from the case. One is fried to a beautiful toffee color with a chocolate glaze and a hint of custard, another is a simple round shape with sparkling sugar, and the final pastry looks like a crenelated, snow-covered castle tower with white frosting. He places them gently on a plate, then asks, “Would you mind if I suggested one?”

Surprised, I respond, “Go ahead.”

Drawing from a storage case underneath the display, Peeta pulls a sugar cookie out.  It’s a flower – a rose with blossomed petals – frosted in a glorious creamy orange with a hint of rosy pink.  I lean forward to touch it, but hesitate, as I’m afraid to spoil the effect of the frosting. “Oh, Peeta,” I gasp.  “It’s beautiful.  I don’t know if I could ever eat it.  Did you make it?”

“Yes.  I frost all the cookies and cakes.”  He looks bashful for a moment.  “It’s the best part of my job.  This color is my favorite,” he gestures toward the cookie.

“Oh,” I say simply.

“Look, if you don’t want to eat these right now, how about you take them home? Once we figure out your favorite, you can come back and buy as many as you like.”  Peeta places the pastries I selected in a box, then deposits the cookie in a plastic display bag with a bow.  “I hope you enjoy them.”

“Thank you,” I manage to get out.  Blushing, Peeta hurries off to the storage room, and I leave the store.  I get almost all the way home before I realize that, once again, I didn’t pay him.  I encourage my mother and Prim to sample the pastries, but I can’t quite bring myself to share the cookie with them.  There was something so intimate about the way Peeta suggested the cookie – there wasn’t a single one like it in the entire display.  Had he made it for me, expecting that I would be back? I take the cookie up to my room and examine it in the fading light.

The delicacy of the frosting amazes me.  Beyond the cookie itself, Peeta had created a life-like imitation of the petals, making them appear three-dimensional on a two-dimensional surface.  The orange isn’t quite orange, but a peach right as it changed between cream and orangey-brown – an almost pink color, like the most beautiful part of the sunset.  The subtlety of it is overwhelming, and – for the first time since hearing his name at the reaping – I feel something.  Not of interest, of course.  But a pang, a shift, somewhere inside of me related to this boy I barely know.

 _I don’t even know Cato’s favorite color_.  The thought sends of shot of pain through me, and I accidentally snap the cookie in my hand.  I gasp in sadness, as the image has collapsed into fragments and crumbs.  The beauty of something like this… a cookie, a flower – they’re not meant to last. I take a small bite, and the sweet flavor explodes in my mouth then dissolves slowly.  I eat the remainder of the cookie quickly, jamming pieces in my mouth even when I haven’t finished the last bite. 

Brushing the crumbs off my lap, I resolve that I will not return to the bakery.  Ever.


	18. Chapter 18

_“for what can scape the eye / Of god all-seeing, or deceive his heart / Omniscient?”_ ( _Paradise Lost_ , X.5-7)

 

I have spent the entire week mulling over Kara’s words, mentally flagellating myself for going to the bakery, and otherwise being a miserable wreck of a human. I still have not made a decision regarding the rebellion, although I am running out of time.

Cinna and my prep team arrive the next week as the snows begin to clear. Prim and my mother welcome the distraction of the prep team, which prevents me from continuing my stewing. The usual hustle and bustle of their work begins as I prepare myself to shuffle through a series of bridal gowns that I have no real interest in wearing.  Bath, makeup, hair, dresses, pictures.  Repeat. 

It’s good to see Cinna again, though.  He has managed to create exquisite designs for my dresses, as well as mock up a few things for my fake talent of fashion design.  “Wow,” I remark as I flip through the sketches. “I’m not bad for an amateur.”

Cinna pokes me in the back while he zips up my next wedding gown – a high-necked affair made entirely out of the itchiest lace I’ve ever worn. “Very funny.  We’ll be shooting commercials for those before the Quell.”

After an afternoon of posing, changing, makeup, and hair, I’m thoroughly crabby.  Cato has been absent all day, “Because he can’t see the bride in what could be her wedding dress!” Venia lectures me when I inquire as to his whereabouts.

“Why not?” Prim asks.

“It’s tradition!” Octavia says imperiously. “No groom can see the bride in her dress before the wedding ceremony.  It’s bad luck!”

“Oh,” Prim responds, now enlightened.

Once Cato arrives, we gather around the dining room table that we rarely use for an overwhelming dinner made with ingredients brought fresh from the Capitol.  “You wouldn’t believe the time we had getting these shrimp,” Venia moans.  “I hope that you enjoy them even though they’re not as fresh as they could be!”

I school my features and put on a smile. “I just appreciate the effort you made to find them!  They’re delicious.”  _Still trouble getting seafood.  Interesting_. 

The remainder of the meal is full of lively but superficial chitchat, until Cinna introduces the topic of the reading of the card tomorrow.  “So, Katniss. I have the most lovely dress for you to wear for the reading of the card!”

I about choke on strawberry – how they got these when it’s winter, I’ll never know – before I can answer, “Oh, really?  Tell me about it.”

“It’s a surprise! We’ll get you all ready tomorrow morning.  The announcement will be in the late afternoon.  I wonder what will happen this year?”  Cinna asks, soliciting guesses from the other diners.

“Oooh,” coos Flavius. “I’ll bet it’s all girls this time.”  Prim pales at Flavius’s thoughtless suggestion.  It would double her chances of being chosen again. I rest my hand on hers and shake my head.

“Not a chance!” Octavia responds. “I think that it’s going to be something where they only pull on people of a certain age!”

“But they already do that,” says Venia.  “Twelve to eighteen.”

Cato drops his fist on the table and laughs a little too loudly.  We all jump at the noise of rattling silverware and plates.  “It’s all speculation until tomorrow.  Let’s help the Everdeen ladies with the dishes, shall we?”

“What?” squeaks Venia.  “You mean, you do your own dishes?”

I smile obligingly at her and say, “Well, we have a machine to do the dirty work.  We just have to walk them into the kitchen.”

“Oh,” she breathes in relief.

I turn to Prim and roll my eyes.  She gives a little laugh, then picks up Flavius’s plate before he can.  “I’ll take that,” she grins at him. 

***

The next morning at ten I begin a whole new prep routine, which I am informed will take five hours from start to finish.  While yesterday had been a superficial bit of makeup – or so I’m told – today’s work will be covered on live television that, unlike photographs, cannot be modified to cover errors.

After yesterday’s ordeal I’m already grouchy, but tolerate the work of my prep team silently.  Around two, when my stomach is rumbling with hunger – “Excellent!” Octavia exclaims. “You’ll look even thinner!” – Cinna brings me my dress.  It’s a silvery grey silk lined with a shiny underskirt of matching satin, embroidered delicately in tiny, dark grey mockingjay symbols that form a simple pattern across the fabric.  Silver beads dot the eyes, twinkling in the growing dim light of the wintery afternoon.  While my calves will show under the flaring skirt, I am given a pair of sheer hose that echo the twinkle of the silver beads on the dress. A furry white cape is drawn over my shoulders and secured with a silver ribbon.  Venia crams me into a pair of sturdy rubber boots for the walk over to the Justice Building, and after eying them skeptically - even with my poor sense of aesthetics - Cinna reassures me that will have a pair of silvery heels for the televised portion of the day.  My hair is drawn back into a low bun, and Cinna places a pair of fluffy white earmuffs, made of the same fur as my cape, over my ears.

“You are our snow princess, Katniss. Look.”  He gestures to the mirror.  The silk matches my Seam eyes, the white draws out the olive tones in my skin.  My engagement ring, all but forgotten over the past weeks, sparkles along with the silver beads, but eclipses their beauty.  The softness of the fur does not weaken my image – I am hard, cold, untouchable.

“It’s beautiful, Cinna. You always know exactly what to do.”  I reach over to hug him, but he steps back. 

“I can’t be smashing your dress!  I’ll hug you after.”  He grins as he surveys his work.  “You look perfect.  Time to go.”

We leave the house just in time to see Haymitch stumbling out of his front door, Venia and Octavia clucking after him.  They’ve managed to wrangle him into a silvery grey suit, which fits him well.  It’s got dark grey accents embroidered in silver, the inverse of my dress.  “I’m fine! Let’s go,” he shouts at them.  Octavia shoos him down the stairs and shuts the door behind her. 

I shuffle through the dirty snow on our front walkway to join him on the street.  “Hello, stranger,” I say sarcastically. 

“Hello, sweetheart,” Haymitch drawls.  “What have you been up to?  Jogging much?” 

I narrow my eyes.  “You have an awfully good sense of timing for someone who’s supposed to be three sheets to the wind most of the time.”

“I’ve had years to practice,” he laughs with a wink.  I’m close enough to where I can see that Haymitch actually isn’t swaying and has – miraculously – lost a bit of weight.  Considering I haven’t seen him jogging, that’s fairly impressive.

 Cato tromps out of his front door and slaps his arms against the chill.  He’s wearing a suit similar to Haymitch’s, only with pale blue silk accents embroidered with silver thread.  “Can we go already?  It’s colder than shit out here!” 

 Flavius shrieks a bit at the profanity, but then recovers himself, saying, “We will be watching from here.  Have a fabulous time!”  My prep team wiggles their fingers at us in what I assume is a fashionable salutation, then heads back into my house.  Cinna remains with us on the sidewalk.  “Moral support,” he reassures me.

 We take off toward the Justice Building, a little juggernaut of victors hurrying against the cold.  Arriving a few minutes early, we take refuge inside the building to warm our hands.  My ears feel warm, but I have a hard time hearing everything people were saying.  When I move my hands to discard the earmuffs, Cinna gently stops my movement and shakes his head. I switch into my heels as he pries the rubber boots off and holds the shoes out for me.

 Within minutes, we are back outside for the announcement.  Cato, Haymitch, and I are not expected to do anything, so we stand lamely next to Mayor Undersee, Kara Undersee, and the new Head Peacekeeper – Romulus Thread, a vicious bastard if I’ve ever met one – on the stage.  The citizens of District 12 look disgruntled at being forced out of their homes to hear the announcement in the cold, but know better than to complain.

 The large screens buzz to life, playing the Panem anthem and showing the seal of the Capitol, then transitioning to President Snow at his desk.  “Greetings, Panem,” he begins.  Once again, the long speech begins about the Dark Days, explaining the rebellion…

  _The rebellion_.  I forgot to tell Plutarch Heavensbee my answer by the reading of the card, _which means I already agreed_.  What little smile I had on my face is banished by the realization that I am now an active participant in treason.  I can’t focus on the remainder of the speech.  I shift from one foot to the other, inviting the pain of my smashed toes as I clench and unclench my hands. Cato gently nudges me in the side, then inclines his head to the camera.  People are watching, he reminds me silently.  The screens show my fidgeting, larger than life, alongside President Snow’s disgusting visage.

 “The Quarter Quell is to create a fresh memory of those who were killed in the rebellion,” Snow drones on.  _Indeed_ , I think darkly, _and those who are about to be killed in another one_.  “In the first Quarter Quell, to remind us of the choice to participate in rebellion, Districts chose their own tributes.  In the second Quarter Quell, to remind us that twice the number of rebels died for every Capitol citizen, every district sent twice the number of tributes.”

 Yes, yes, I think.  Get on with it. I’ve got bigger problems now.

 “This Quarter Quell, to remind us of the Capitol citizens that died against their will, one tribute reaped from the current pool of victors, for whom there can be no volunteer.”  There is a collective gasp, but Snow is not finished.  “As a further reminder that no one is safe from temptations of rebellion, one tribute will be reaped from the pool of people who have been saved by past volunteers.  Happy Hunger Games, and may the odds be ever in your favor.”  Snow smiles, and the screens go to black.  What? A victor and a person saved by a volunteer? Did I hear incorrectly with my earmuffs? 

The entire audience is mute. There are only three victors. There are only two people who have ever been saved by a volunteer in District 12, and one of them is Prim.  The other is Peeta Mellark.

Somehow, I feel nothing.  Empty. 

“Bullshit!” I hear Cato exclaim as I stare up at the blank screens.  “This is fucking bullshit!”

“Calm down, Mr. Undersee,” I hear a Peacekeeper warn.  “You don’t want to make a scene.”

“I’ll be damned if I don’t want to make a scene!  You’ve got to be fucking kidding me!” I don’t bother to look at the scene – I know exactly what’s happening, but I can’t bring myself to engage with it.  Cato continues to protest.  “Don’t fucking touch me!  I will kill you if you touch me again,” he snarls as a Peacekeeper attempts to grab his arm, swinging out at the man to force space between them.  Haymitch is nowhere to be seen; Cato’s parents have retreated to the Justice Building.  The audience has already mostly dispersed, and the ones who have stayed quickly scurry away from the stage upon hearing Cato’s rush of cursing, fleeing before they become witnesses or, worse, accessories to attacking a Peacekeeper. 

“Mr. Undersee, you need to get ahold of yourself, or we will be forced to detain you,” a Peacekeeper warns, unclipping his firearm.

“Detain my ass!  I’m a victor; you can’t fucking touch me!”  Cato shouts, growing more and more infuriated with each attempt to calm him.  His nostrils flare as his eyes dart between the Peacekeepers – he’s calculating who to hit first, and where, and what damage will be inflicted to allow him to attack the next guard. Cato could easily kill three of the armed Peacekeepers without batting an eye.  Of course, he would be killed with one shot.  This is why Snow wanted us here.  And this is why Snow wanted the cameras trained on us for this whole experience. 

Anticipating the coming violence, I snap myself out of my trance and reach over to touch Cato’s sleeve.  “Cato, let’s go home,” I urge gently while tugging his arm.  “We’ll take a little walk, and then we’ll go home.”

Cato yanks his arm away from the Peacekeeper, then grabs my hand and drags me down the stage, ignoring the fact that I haven’t changed into my other shoes.  Cinna scrambles behind us, handing me the boots.  I pull my hand out of Cato’s grip, quickly switch into the boots, chuck the heels at Cinna, and hustle after the enormous figure stalking away from the stage.  Cato heads along the fence, which still teems with electricity, reminding us once more of how trapped we are in 12, how at the mercy of every Peacekeeper and Capitol bureaucrat, how little control we had over our own lives.

“Cato, wait!” I gasp as I struggle to keep up.  “I’ve got something to tell you!  It’s an emergency.”

He stops suddenly and I almost run into him.  “What?  What could possible be more important than figuring out this mess?”

I fuss with the ribbon on my fur cape.  “Well,” I start hesitantly.  “So remember what we talked about in the meadow?”

Cato lets out an exasperated sigh through his nose.  “Yes.  Do we really have to talk about it right now?  I’ve already made my opinion clear on this subject.  And I don’t feel up to debating the whole thing again after all this bullshit.”

“Yes, we do have to talk about it,” I respond acerbically, as his stubbornness brings out my own.  “I forgot to send the message.”

“What message?”

“The message to say ‘no.’”

“You _what?_ ” 

“I’ve been busy.  And you have to admit that after this afternoon, we have an even greater reason to help.”

“Let me get this straight,” he begins, pinching the bridge of his nose and keeping his voice a deadly calm. “Are you seriously telling me that in addition to one of us probably going back to the arena, and in addition to Prim probably going back to the arena, that – because you forgot to send a note – you are now involved in…?” he stops, then assesses the fence as if it’s composed of cameras and microphones rather than razor wire.

“Yes.”  I hold up a finger as I reconsider.  “Well, it’s not just that I forgot to send a note.  I honestly think it’s the right thing to do.  Especially now."

“And you weren’t going to consult me on this?

“You don’t have to participate.  It’s not like I’m obligating you.”

“I’m going to be your husband.  Of course I’m obligated.  You don’t see how this is an issue?  You realize that half the reason we’re probably in this mess is because,” Cato looks up at the fence as though it’s a living metonym of Snow, then whispers, “ _he_ knows.”

“That is ridiculous,” I respond matter-of-factly.  “And there’s nothing we can do about it now.”

Cato glares at me, arms crossed.  I can hear him grinding his teeth as he thinks.  Between the buzzing of the electrified fence, the reading of the card, and the tension between us, I’ve hit my limit for stress.  “I’m going home.  Will you come with me?”  I hold out my hand in a goodwill gesture.  

He sighs and drops his aggressive posture.  Taking my hand, he draws me close to his chest.  “We’re doing the toasting.”  His breath is warm against the top of my head.

“Of course.” My earmuffs dig uncomfortably into my temple, so I yank them off and throw them in the snow.  I lean into Cato’s chest, listening to his heartbeat with my now unencumbered hearing.

“Tomorrow,” he says with finality.

“What?"

“I’m going to make sure that we have as much real time together as possible.  Your mother will see it as official, and we will live together,” he pronounces.

Doubts bubble up.  We already practically live together.  Why would we need to do the toasting so soon?  “But won’t we get in trouble?” I ask nervously.

“We’re not filing paperwork or anything.  We’re just going to do the toasting and call it good.  Fuck those Capitol idiots.  It’s our life.  If neither of us are reaped, then we can worry about the formal wedding later.”

I suddenly feel extremely claustrophobic and push back from him.  “Wait.  Have you really thought this through?”

“Kat,” he begins with a gently reproving tone.  “I’ve wanted to marry you since we were kids.  The only thing that’s changed is the circumstances.”  He raises an eyebrow questioningly.  “Unless something has changed with you?”

“No!” I insist.  “Nothing has changed.  It’s just…” I search for words. “Sudden.  I mean, I want to marry you too, but I thought I had more time to,” I pause again, thinking of the most tactful way to say what I want, but that eludes my grasp of language. “Get used to the idea.  I’m only seventeen.  You just turned eighteen.  What if you change your mind?”

“What if _I_ change my mind?  Kat, is having the same idea for six years not quite long enough for you?  Apparently you’re the one with all the doubts right now!” He points a finger accusingly at me.  “Did you ever want to marry me?  Or was it just a show for the Capitol?”

“Yes,” I say weakly.  Silence falls between us. I go on cautiously. “I’m not sure what you want me to say. I’m still,” I gesture with my hands, trying to summon the right words, “processing.”

Cato steps back, dropping his arms from me and taking his warmth with him.  He faces the fence, face obscured in the growing shadows. “You go home. Tell your ma what you want.  I want to do the toasting tomorrow. If you don’t want to, then you don’t have to.  But if you don’t want to do it tomorrow, then I don’t think you want to marry me at all.”  He turns to me, eyes cold.

“You can’t issue that sort of ultimatum!” I splutter.  “What sort of marriage is it when you force me to go too fast?”

Cato remains unmoved, staring at me with his arms crossed.  “I didn’t think I was forcing you into anything.  You agreed to marry me, right?  The where and when shouldn’t matter.”

“I just don’t want to be railroaded into anything – and I do mean _anything_ ,” I emphasize, “by the Capitol’s whims.  Even this.”  I spread my hands, pleading with him to understand me.

“Go home, Katniss.  I’ll meet you there later.”  The deadly control in his voice is more frightening than anything.  For once, I feel absolutely inclined to obey.  I take several steps back from him before turning and trudging home, missing my silly earmuffs as the wind picks up.


	19. Chapter 19

_“dire was the noise / Of conflict!”_ ( _Paradise Lost_ , VI.211-12)

 

Once I leave Cato near the fence, I realize that Prim must be distraught – she will likely be reaped.  Again.  Hustling away from the District boundaries, I stumble clumsily in my heavy boots until I reach the Victor’s Village.  The lights in Haymitch’s house are dark again.  I pause to catch my breath and chuckle dismally – he’s almost certainly gone straight to Ripper to buy liquor.  If I didn’t still have a strong and unpleasant memory of my first and only hangover, I would certainly join him.

Worming my way out of the tall boots on the porch, I see Prim’s face obscured through the leaded and marbled glass that decorates our front door.  She jerks the door open and attacks me in a tight embrace. With one foot still raised and stuck in the top of the boot, I begin to lose my balance as she grabs me and my shoulder slams into the doorjamb. 

“Oof,” I moan.  Yet another bruise to contend with, I think ruefully. “Prim, let’s go inside.”  Her worried eyes search my face.  “I’m fine. But I’m hungry. Inside – it’s almost time for dinner.”

Surprisingly, I see Haymitch and my mother huddled at the kitchen table. Haymitch has tossed his suit coat around the chair’s back, rolled up his shirtsleeves, and loosened his tie.  My mother has her hands in her hair, leaning forward on her elbows. Their eyes are circled under in worry; my mother’s are rimmed in red.  She stands to lose two daughters in a few months.  How could I possibly marry Cato and leave her to deal with this alone, even if it was to move next door?  Haven’t we had enough change?  Enough worry?

The chair shrieks as she pushes back from the table and stands. “Katniss,” my mother begins before her voice wavers and falls to silence.  She presses the back of her hand against her mouth, warding off tears.

I meter my words to keep the calm in spite of my rising panic at seeing my mother’s expression. “Ma, we all need to talk.  It’s going to be a difficult few months.  Sit down, please.”  My stomach gurgles violently.  “Before we start, is there anything to eat?  My prep team starved me.”

Prim flies into the pantry and collects several rolls, as well as soft butter.  I sit at the table and eat an entire roll before beginning again.  As I chew, I can see how much Snow intended this to torture us: months of waiting.  Haymitch’s mouth is pressed in a grim line; my mother’s face is streaked with silent tears.  Prim, now barely thirteen, has aged years since I left the house this afternoon in my beautiful dress. 

And it _is_ torture.  This time we know exactly what is coming, but without the smallest bit of hope of being spared.  This time, it will not be some anonymous child being reaped, but a member of my family.  Haymitch, Cato, Prim, me – at least one of us will go.  I feel a small tug of guilt at Peeta’s situation.  Almost everyone will feel relieved if he’s reaped.  Few will mourn him.

I shake my head to clear the thought, placing my palms flat on the table to begin our little meeting.  “Now,” I start. “Where’s Cinna?  And the team?”

“I sent them to the Undersees,” Haymitch grunts. “Better than my place.”

“Indeed,” I respond archly.  “We’re missing Cato, but I don’t think he’s coming.”

“Why not?” Prim interjects, her curiosity getting the better of her fear.

I can’t help but smile at her.  “I’ll explain in a minute, little duck.” I make eye contact with Haymitch.  “No volunteers for the victors?”

Haymitch shrugs nonchalantly. “As though there were that many volunteers before.  I hope you didn’t expect me to step in for you, sweetheart,” he drawls.

I roll my eyes.  “Hardly.”  Turning to address Prim, I take her warm, delicate hands in my own.  “Prim, you know that there is an extremely good chance that you will be reaped.”  Her lower lip shakes in fear.  “You know that if I am reaped, I will take care of you.  The same goes for Cato.”  I turn Haymitch and give him a look of death.  “Haymitch?”

He balances his chair on the back legs and produces a toothpick from the pocket of his discarded suit jacket.  Jamming it between his teeth for a moment, he gestures towards Prim and says, “That little girl is the reason we’re all here now, right?”

“Precisely,” I respond crisply, choosing to ignore his flatly sarcastic tone. “So, Prim, you have nothing to worry about.  We will keep you safe.  You’ll have an ally no matter what.” I release her hands and sit back, taking the three uneaten rolls off the plate and spreading them in a line. 

Lifting one roll, as though ticking off a list, I ask, “Haymitch, what do you see as our priorities here?”

“Well,” he begins thoughtfully, “I think I’ll need to check in on some friends.”  I nod my head once in agreement.  “It’s going to take a little while.  You really need to be patient.”  As I begin to open my mouth to retort, Haymitch silences me with a raised hand. “No, sweetheart.  You can’t interfere in this. Nothing will make it go faster.”

I cross my arms across my chest and glower at him. “Fine.  But I want help to make sure that Prim is ready.  If one of us gets killed – and we probably will – she needs to be able to last.”

Haymitch nods.  “We’ll have to get her at least trained up in snares.  Maybe knives. Something innocuous.”

“Prim, honey,” I say.  “If you want to survive, you’re going to need to prepare for blood.”

Prim copies my posture of crossed arms and raises an eyebrow.  “I’m better with blood than you are, Katniss.”

I twitch up a corner of my mouth at her performance.  “Yes, but you keep trying to heal whatever food I bring home.  It can’t be like that.”

Prim pales at the thought and murmurs, “I know.  I’ll try my best.”

My mother joins in suddenly.  “Katniss, where is Cato in all of this?  You said he wasn’t coming?"

“Ah…” I wonder how best to hedge this.  “We had a chat after the reading of the card.”

“And?” my mother presses.

“And,” I draw out each sound of the word. “Cato wants to do our toasting tomorrow.”

Haymitch cracks the toothpick in his mouth.  “What?”

“I know,” I answer forlornly, leaning back and throwing a forearm over my eyes. The table is quiet.

Prim is the first to break the silence. “But, Katniss, don’t you want to marry him?” she asks innocuously.

I remove my arm and sigh.  “Of course I want to marry him.  But look at this mess,” I gesture wildly.  “I have a one in three chance of being reaped and so does he.  Either way, there’s very little chance of us coming home.  Prim, you have to be protected.  This isn’t a time for a wedding!  I can’t leave you like this!”  I glance around the table, seeking validation for my hesitancy earlier.

My mother raps her knuckles on the table.  “Katniss, I thought that of all people you wouldn’t be so absurd.”

“I beg your pardon?” I ask in amazement.

“You fought to keep this family alive for years, even when I failed you again and again.  Your father died, you and Cato fed us.  You volunteer for your sister, and fight to return.   Even now, at this very table, you are fighting for our survival.”  She inhales deeply and looks me in the eye.  “And you fought to marry him.  You know life is short – you saw what happened to me when I lost your father. Do you want your last experiences to be fighting over something that you planned to do anyway?  To lose the man you love because of your obstinacy?”  She slaps her hand on the table again. “Shame on you.”




I stare at her – she has certainly grown a spine since the Games.  I let out the breath I was holding in.  My mother changes her expression to one of tenderness.  “You deserve happiness.  Does he make you happy?”

“Yes,” I breathe.

“Do you love him?”

“Yes,” I say without hesitation.

“Then what’s the problem?” Haymitch interrupts, anticipating the next question.  I glare at him. “What?” he asks with false innocence.  “Sweetheart, it’s not like you’re moving away.  You’re moving next door.  And as I far as what I’ve _heard_ ,” he says with an evil twinkle in his eye, “it’s only the formalities that distinguish you from married couples. It’s a ceremony that you wanted in the first place, right?”

“Yes,” I respond, humbled.

“All right then,” Prim chirps.  “I’ll get some bread tomorrow morning from the baker, and we’ll do the toasting in private at Cato’s house in the afternoon.”

“No!” I say… too quickly and too loudly.  Prim gives me a questioning look. “I’ll get the bread.  It’s my job – my wedding.” 

“Okay,” Prim says tentatively.  “Ma and I will get your things together to take over tomorrow afternoon.  It will be a good project for tonight.”  A welcome distraction, to be sure.

“Should you go talk to him?” my mother asks. 

I shove back my chair from the table, stretching my back.  “Yes,” I answer.  Feeling the slick fabric under my palms, I look down and realize I’m still wearing my dress from earlier. “But hold off on packing for a few minutes – I need to change.” 

“Of course,” she says, but her smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes. 

***

After a quick change into comfortable clothes, I dart next door in light shoes, leaping spritely over heaps of snow and avoiding larger puddles of slush.  Twilight has set and the wind picks up – all I can think of is getting inside.  Well, that, and abating Cato’s anger. 

I open the front door without knocking, only to find the house cold and empty.  Rattling around the house, I adjust the thermostat and turn on lights, grabbing a sandwich and milk while I flip the switches.  I arrange wood in the fireplace to warm up the main rooms, stacking it as I was taught in the Training Center last year to direct the heat up the flue.  My mind rockets back to those days, as I remember vividly how my hands shook holding the flint and leaves.  I must have dropped the flint at least three times… until Cato took my hands and steadied them. 

My throat catches with the rush of feelings.  I have been so uncooperative – endangering his life, frustrating him at every turn.  Still, there’s no ignoring the distance that has grown between us.  And I’m not quite sure who to blame in this.  The icy ferocity of his eyes earlier was not entirely because of Snow’s interference with the reading of the card.  

Of course Snow did this, I think furiously.  The tyrant – he just wants to drive a wedge between me and Cato, now that it’s obvious that our affections hadn’t prevented Panem from resisting his rule.  Venia’s complaints about District 4 were revealing.  4 was about as career as they come – if they are resisting the Capitol, then most other Districts must be in arms.  1 and 2, of course, would be hand in glove with the Capitol.  They haven’t had the same difficulties we’ve had.  But the others?  The other Districts have as much cause to hate the Capitol.  If not more – I have no way to judge given the small tidbits of District population I saw on the Victory Tour. 

Suddenly reassured at my decision – or lack thereof – to participate in the rebellion, I feel a measure of peace.  I strike the flint, lighting the fire with sure hands and a calm heart.

I stretch out on the couch with my sandwich and tug at the crust of the bread.  It’s slightly stale and crumbles a bit at my touch.  Determined, I take a big bite and chew thoughtfully.  I will live in this house for the rest of my life.  _Assuming I’m not reaped_.  The sandwich turns to dust in my mouth.

Brushing the crumbs off my lap and setting the otherwise uneaten sandwich on the floor, I enjoy the first real alone time that I have had in what feels like days.  There are far too many troubles, what with the likelihood of being reaped along with Prim, the pressure of the Capitol, rebellion, and the reemergence of Cato’s truly violent nature.  While I’m sure he’d never hit me, his anger is spiraling out of control. The arguments are piling up. 

I twitch the ends of my braid through my fingers and listen to the crackling fire as I indulge in a fresh round of self-inflicted guilt.  There’s my desire to go back to the bakery.  Peeta Mellark is practically a stranger.  Why do I feel guilty about wanting to talk to him?  I furrow my brow, thinking of the cookie he made me, the ease with which it crumbled in my grip.  Because the poor fellow could be reaped too – that’s why. Yes.  That’s it.  And no one else understands what that feels like. 

Of course I feel bad for him!  Just like Prim, the poor guy has almost no skills – he’d be killed in a second in the arena. But at least Prim would have the protection of the victors from 12. And if Peeta stands between me and victory, me and coming home to my family… well, I know who would come out on top in that regard.  I blush, then grimace as the tasteless phrase runs through my mind.  My cheeks warm at the thought of such intimacies with anyone but Cato – and even those intimacies are embarrassing enough to think much about. 

That’s the thing.  Peeta is sweet.  He’s been nice, and he obviously cares. Being with Cato is all fire and ice.  We’ve had so little stability, so little time to grow accustomed to each other. If only we could go a week without some horrendous change to our lives.  If only things could go back to the way they were before the Games.

We were one then, I muse.  We trained together, moved together, fought together.  Love got in the way of something beautiful.  No, I correct myself.  It wasn’t _love_ that got in the way.  It was being forced into those feelings so quickly, without having time to think them through.  And that’s it: I’m frustrated that I’m constantly being pushed into things without my consent.  Even if they’re things I want to do, like marry Cato.

For once in my life, I would like a choice.  And once again, it’s being taken away from me.  Choosing to be happy with it doesn’t quite have the same satisfaction.

I yawn and roll on my side to face the back of the couch, the heat of the fire pleasant against my back.  My eyes sting with exhaustion, but I am determined to stay awake until Cato gets home. “Later,” he said earlier.  Whatever that means.  

Dusk has fallen deeply, turning the sky outside the window to a deep violet.  I think of the lights in the Capitol, so bright that I couldn’t see the stars.  Here, the darkness has muted everything.

I wait what feels like hours, until the darkness and silence blanket the house and the fire has burned down to embers. Unable to hold up my lids any more, I snuggle into the sofa and let sleep take me.


	20. Chapter 20

_“of him thou art, / His flesh, his bone; to give thee being I lent / Out of my side to thee, neerest my heart / Substantial Life, to have thee by my side”_ ( _Paradise Lost_ IV.482-85).

 

A blast of cold air shocks me from my sleep, followed by the slamming of the front door. “Kat?” I hear Cato call through the house

I jerk off the couch, noticing with no small amount of shame the puddle of saliva I have left on the expensive fabric.  “Whu?” I slur, wiping my face.

I am swept off the sofa into Cato’s freezing cold arms, followed by a chilly but impassioned kiss.  His bristly face presses against mine – he was out all night apparently.  “I was so worried – I couldn’t get back after I went to my parents’ house.  They insisted I stay… and you know my mother.”  I blink owlishly.  “But you waited!” he crows jubilantly.  “Does this mean that we’re doing the toasting today?”

Self-conscious about my morning breath and state of disarray, I attempt to move a hand to my mouth covertly as I nod silently.  More than that, yesterday he was furious – now he’s sunny and loving.  I can hardly handle the emotional whiplash.

“What’s wrong?”  Two concerned blue eyes scan my face.  I swear, I’m giving the man wrinkles.

“Nothing,” I mumble through my fingers.  “Morning breath.”

“Ah.  Well!” He squeezes me tightly and puts me down.  “Are you ready for today?”

I know better than to answer perfectly honestly, so I simply return his embrace and say,  “I need to change.  Ma and Prim will bring over my things.”

“Great.  I need to clean up, too.”  Cato gives me a cocky grin. It appears he’s back to his old self, even with the impending Quell reaping. 

Rather than try to learn the events of the previous evening, I slip back into my shoes and head next door to my house. The snow is a blinding white – we must have gotten a fresh covering last night. No sooner do I get through the front door than Cinna greets me. 

“Getting married without consulting me about the bridal regalia?” he cocks an elegant eyebrow.

I despair at the thought of another extensive beauty routine. “Oh, Cinna.  I can’t handle another day in a chair.  It’s not that kind of wedding.  Plus, we’re trying to keep it quiet… you know that the team can’t keep things like this secret.”

He smiles warmly.  “I sent them back to the Capitol.  Don’t worry.  Nothing over the top. Just family.  But perhaps a good friend might help?”

I throw my arms over his shoulders, hugging him close.  Cinna has been my guardian and friend.  Of course he has to come.  “As long as there aren’t any high heels involved, you’re hired.”

He returns my embrace.  “Don’t worry.  You’ll be exactly as you should be.”

I shrug out of his arms.  “I need to run an errand before I get primped.  How long will it take to get me ready?”

Cinna grins.  “For you, on your wedding day, my gift to you is to have you ready in less than thirty minutes.”

I slap a hand to my heart dramatically, feigning palpitations.  “You’re surely joking!"

He chuckles and places a hand on his heart as well.  “I swear.  When will you be back?”

“I need to put on a coat, then probably about an hour.  Can you let everyone know?”

“I’ll be proud to spread the word,” Cinna answers.

I give him another quick hug, snag my winter coat out of the hall closet, and fumble for money.  I know I need to make this trip to the bakery, but there will be no exchanges of pleasantries this time.

Sprinting across town, I bob around slowly shuffling people swaddled in scarves and dart to avoid Peacekeepers. I make it to the bakery in record time, stopping only to shake the snow off my feet before bounding into the shop. 

The bell signals my entry, and a blonde head snaps up from behind the counter. It’s Peeta – my throat catches.  He looks miserable, blue eyes limned with circles and red lash lines. “Katniss!” he blurts out upon seeing me.  His face transforms, shining in excitement and happiness.

“Peeta,” I breathe.  I feel a muscle along my brow bone twitch.  “How are you doing?”

“Well, I’ve been better.  I mean, yesterday was a shock.”  He averts his eyes to the ceiling.

“Yes.  It was a shock to us all,” I reply.  “I never expected to go back.  To the Games, that is.”

Peeta lets out a bark of a laugh. “Yeah.  Just when I thought I was saved last year…”

I echo his unfinished sentence. “Just when I thought I saved myself last year…”

We laugh together for a minute at the irony. 

“So,” he continues.  “Did you come back for some pastries?  What did you like the best last time?”

Unwilling to answer him directly, I say simply, “I need a loaf of bread.”

“No pastries?” Peeta looks confused.

“No pastries.  Just one loaf of bread.  Plain.  Whole wheat.” 

“Just bread,” Peeta echoes weakly.

“Yes.”  The word comes out, sounding much more like an apology than an affirmation.  I won't be buying any pastries - won't be continuing whatever our little game is.

Peeta collects the loaf and wraps it carefully.  I hand over the money and, for the first time, he takes it.  As we exchange coins, our fingers touch again and a feeling shoots through me.  This time, the electricity isn’t from static.  We meet eyes for the briefest of seconds, but it’s long enough for me to see the despair in his.

***

I walk home with considerably lower spirits than when I left.  Dropping the loaf in the kitchen, I am greeted by my mother, Prim, and Cinna, all of whose excitement is evident.  I take a deep breath and gird myself for the remainder of the day.

Cinna marches me upstairs and has me in and out of the shower in minutes.  He applies the lightest of silver eyeliners, but no other makeup, and puts my hair back in a long braid – my signature braid.  Looking in the mirror, I approve entirely.  It’s me, with no layers or armor standing between the world and me.  There’s a vulnerability in it, being stripped of every weapon – including the protection of false beauty – as I step into my new life.  Cinna is a master, to be sure.

The evidence is talent is further reinforced when I see my wedding dress.  Not white – Cato would laugh at that – but a green silk dress embroidered with gold and copper leaves.  It’s modest, as it brushes the floor and sweeps along my collarbones, skimming my form without revealing more than necessary. A final gift from Cinna – comfortable flats. Not a single mockingjay appears on the ensemble.  The message is clear: I am marrying Cato as myself.  Not the Mockingjay.  Not the girl on fire.  But the woman who grew up in the woods and fell in love with him there.  I grin widely – perhaps for the first time in days.  Cinna smiles at my silent appraisal.

I can’t tell Cinna everything that I would like to say.  There aren’t words.  But tears come to my eyes in response to the overwhelming gratitude I feel for this man who has prepared me for every major event of the past months.

“Thank you,” I gasp out and wipe away a tear as it escapes from the corner of my eye.

“You are ever so welcome, Katniss.  It’s been such a pleasure.”  His words feel like a farewell, and suddenly it hits me – I’m really getting married.  My life is changing once more.  Hope and sorrow sear through me simultaneously. 

Before I can fully analyze the catalysts of my emotions, Prim opens my bedroom door and squeals in delight.  “Oh, Katniss!  You look beautiful!  Cinna, you have done such an amazing job.”  She crushes the loaf of bread to her chest in excitement, and the crackling of crust under her grip makes me wince.

My mother follows behind, carrying a small parcel.  She inhales sharply upon seeing me. “Katniss,” she begins, her voice quavering.

I smile weakly and lift my eyes to the ceiling, guarding against rising tears at her display.  It’s good to know that she can feel again after those years of hollowness that followed my father’s death.

Cinna claps his hands together. “All right! We need to head over to Cato’s.”  He slips a loose coat over my shoulders, not bothering to put my arms through the sleeves.  “You won’t be wearing this long, but it will keep you warm and that dress out of sight.”

My mother has gathered her emotions and asks, “Are you ready?”

I take a breath to steady myself. “Yes.”

“Let’s go!” Prim cries, grabbing my hand and pulling me into the hallway, the bread tucked securely under her arm.  I resist the urge to yank it away from her – the last thing I need is squashed bread for my toasting.

We trek downstairs and sweep across the shoveled walkways.  Kara Undersee greets us as the front door, smiling in an icy blue satin top and light gray trousers.  A pale blue gem is nestled in the hollow of her throat, glinting in the dim winter light.  “Come in before you freeze to death!” she exclaims.  “Cato is upstairs getting ready.  I swear,” she stage whispers conspiratorially, “it’s the most he’s cared about how he’s looked _ever_.”  Kara breaks out into a little peal of motherly laughter.  The others chuckle with her; all I can do is force my lips into a smile. 

Cinna pulls the coat off my shoulders and Kara’s face lights up. “Katniss, my dear –” she pauses, just as my mother did.  I see her bottom lip tremble for a moment, then she schools her features.  “You look lovely,” she resumes.  “Now, I haven’t been to one of these before, so please excuse my ignorance.  What happens at a toasting?”

Prim – thankfully – pipes in.  “Well, we skipped the part at the Justice Building.  That’s where they sign the paperwork.  Then we usually sing to the couple as they enter the house.  It’s a very old song.  But we have to skip that, too.”  Her face falls a little at the thought.  _This isn’t a real wedding_ , she seems to realize.

“So,” my mother breaks in with a business-like tone. “We hear the couple say a few words, they toast the bread in the fire, and feed each other the bread.  That’s it.”

The back door bangs open as she finishes her sentence, as Haymitch plows through with an armload of wet wood, which he dumps into the wood box on the hearth.  “I hope you all weren’t thinking of using this firewood.  It’s completely soaked.”

I groan internally.  What other signs do I need that this isn’t supposed to happen?

“I have dry firewood in the kitchen, Haymitch,” I hear Cato’s masculine tones behind me. I spin and take in the sight. 

His black suit and white shirt are crisp, with no color to soften the lines or accent his eyes.  Nothing is muted; everything is stark and clear.  Through a trick of the eye, the suit broadens his shoulders and makes him appear taller, the darkness of his form swallowing the light in the room.  Already he towers over me, but now I feel dwarfed by a god, whose brilliant blue eyes are alight with pleasure.  I take him in ravenously, all doubts cast aside.  This is the man to whom I owe my loyalty, my life, my love.

We stand and stare at each other for a moment as others shift uncomfortably at the dynamics between us, unable to tell whether or not we are about to make love or kill each other.  It always was a little bit of both.

I am the first to extend my hand.  “Come on. Let’s build a fire.”  We move into the living room as Haymitch returns to the kitchen to fetch the dry firewood.  Kneeling over the hearth, Cato and I assemble our fire, placing the logs and kindling together carefully.  My mother unwraps the package and hands me a bundle of dried herbs – a blessing of comfort and peace within the home – to place at the apex of the fire.

Cato strikes the fire and stokes it into a blaze, the flue drawing the smoke as flames crackle to life.  Leaning to the side of the hearth, he grabs an ancient toaster, the long fork to spear the bread and hold over the hot embers.  I take the bread from Prim, and we turn to face each other.

“Katniss Everdeen,” Cato begins, his face full of emotion. “You are my hearth.  You are my home.  You are my refuge.  Will you be my partner for the rest of my days?”

Without hesitation, I respond, “Yes.”  Now it’s my turn.  “Cato Undersee.  You are my hunter.  You are my helpmeet.  You are my guardian.  Will you be my partner for the rest of my days?”

Grinning from ear to ear, he says, “Yes.”  Then we begin our short vows. “Katniss, I promise to honor you in all things that I do.  I will keep you fed.  I will honor your body.  I will protect you with my life.”

Smiling at the vows, I answer him with mine.  “Cato, I promise to honor you in all things that I do.  I will provide you comfort.  I will honor your body.  I will protect you with my life.”  I could hear Prim and my mother sniffling behind me as we finish our vows.  “Cato, I accept you as my husband,” my voice chokes at the end.

“Katniss, I accept you as my wife,” Cato finishes resoundingly.  I hand him a piece of bread – the symbol of my womanly obeisance in the marriage.  He takes the toaster, which represents the weapon he wields to protect our family.  We place our hands together, moving the bread through the flames together.  After several minutes, we remove the bread.  I gingerly tear a piece from the toaster, as does Cato. 

Holding the bread up to his mouth, I say, “Cato, you are now my husband.”  Cato eats the bread quickly and holds up my piece. “Katniss, you are now my wife.”  I take the bread into my mouth and meet his eyes – they are triumphant.

I swallow the bread and we join hands, facing each other.  Cato is humming with excitement; I feel tremors of anxious pleasure running through me.  I squeeze his hands, trying to remind myself that this really has happened.  Prim, unable to stand it any longer, exclaims, “Just kiss, already!”

“Prim!” my mother reprimands.

“It’s not like I needed any prodding,” Cato grumbles theatrically, then swoops down for a long, hot kiss – far more passionate than the kisses at usual toastings, which are witnessed by families and friends. 

“Neither did I,” I murmur in his ear as he embraces me. 

__All I can think is,_ This is joy.  
_


	21. Chapter 21

_“as a sacrifice / Glad to be offered”_ ( _Paradise Lost_ III.269-70)

 

Married life offers few alterations to my existence.  Cato and I sleep together, clatter around in the kitchen through the staples his mother has delivered, and go on long runs in the winter afternoons.  I find peace and comfort in the routine, security in our domestic rituals.  I feel content, with one exception – the approaching Quell.  I don’t hear from Plutarch Heavensbee, nor do I speak much with Kara. The rebellion is far from my mind.

What does change is working with Prim.  The reaping is in the spring, and I cannot wait any longer to begin preparing her for the Games.  Behind Cato’s house, we work with her to build muscle, work with knives, set snares.  Haymitch shows up occasionally and offers gruff advice.  “No, girl.  Wrap the rope under the kick twig, not over.  You want this person up in the air, not on the ground.” Prim whimpers at first, but then becomes surer in her movements. 

Knives are the most difficult for her.  We have one hunting knife that Cato scavenged from beyond the fence.  How he got it, I don’t know, but I’m guessing that Kara Undersee had something to do with it.  The knife itself isn’t perfect.  It’s slightly unbalanced, weighted more on the hilt than the blade, which makes it awkward to throw.  While Cato and I can land a knife on virtually any target, and Haymitch picks the skill up again with a little effort, Prim’s hesitancy to use a real weapon gets the better of her. 

“I’m afraid I’ll cut myself,” she protests.

“Prim, you’ve got to get the hang of this.  We can’t protect you all the time in the arena,” I say. Her lower lip wobbles as I mention the Games.  “Just try it a few more times.  Line up your stance, feel the handle.”  I guide her hand, moving her fingers. As I step back, she releases – the knife goes clattering to the trunk of the tree, hitting it with the hilt.  Her eyes mist over in frustration.

Cato stands away, assessing Prim’s movements.  “I think I see the problem,” he begins.  “Katniss, we never had to talk much about this because I had better knives and your arms were stronger.  But the key to sticking a knife is speed – get it moving so fast that the blade is the most likely thing to land.”  He jogs to the tree and picks up the knife.

“Prim,” he says gently.  “I think the problem is that this knife is a little too heavy for you.  Give me a few minutes, okay?”  Cato hands me the knife hilt first.  “Kat, you keep throwing.  We’ve got to build up arm strength.”  He heads into the house.  I shrug sympathetically at Prim and get back to throwing the knife, working on my accuracy.  A small knot in the tree is my target, and I’m able to hit it four tries out of five before Cato returns. 

In his hand, I see a paring knife from the kitchen.  It’s small, no serration, by made completely from metal – there’s no plastic or wood on the handle. “Here, Prim.”  Cato hands it to her gingerly, examining her reaction to the knife, its weight and feel in her hand. 

Prim closes her fingers around the handle and steps away from Cato.  Taking a deep breath and facing the tree, she hurls the knife toward the trunk – and it sticks. Not where she was aiming, I can tell, but the exhilaration at actually sticking the knife is evident on her face.

Cato nods in approval.  “Well done.  Now,” he pushes at her back, prodding her toward the tree, “go get it.  You should always pick up your own weapons.”  I glance up and meet his eyes – this resonates with our meeting far too long ago.  _If you want to be a hunter, you’ve got to kill it yourself_.  An ugly lesson to learn.

We continue working until lunch, when my mother shouts out the window that food is ready.  While Prim has not managed to hit her target, she does manage to get the knife into the tree with greater ease.  I feel relieved – she won’t be completely helpless in the arena as long as one of us can protect her. 

We eat lunch, then Cato and I bundle up for an afternoon run.  Haymitch declines, citing his “old man knees,” and wanders off toward town.

Our breath white in the wind, we make a long loop around the edge of the fence to check if it’s still on, cutting across the meadow by the school as we jog in silence.  My stamina has improved over the past weeks – the burdensome stress and fears have an outlet, a target.

We pass the school again.  “She won’t make it,” Cato says.  I skid to a stop, hands pressed to my thighs and panting with exertion.  Cato stops next to me, breathing heavily.

“What?”

“Prim.  She’s not going to make it in the arena.  You know it.”

“How can you say that?”

“Easily.  Because if Haymitch goes in with her, he’s too old and selfish to protect her.  If you go in with her, you’ll die to keep her alive but then she can’t kill anyone else.  And if I go in, I will be targeted by 2.  We’ll both be killed.  Quickly.  And horribly.”  Cato’s tone is nonchalant, as if he was considering dinner plans.

“What do you expect me to do?  I have to help her any way I can!” I hear the panic in my voice – I am in this because of Prim. To save her from all of the horrible things in the world.

“I know.  But you have to prepare yourself.  There may be nothing that we can do.  Even if she were as deadly as Clove was, Prim might die.”

I stare at him coldly.  “I can’t afford to think that way.  Let’s go.”  I dart out in front of him and take the lead.  I guide us back through town near the Seam, witnessing the latest prisoners in the stocks and one body hanging from the gallows – a little girl. 

Slowing to take in the sight, I see it’s one of the girls I offered my gloves to about a month before – Sheera was her name. Her face is blue from the noose, her tongue hangs out as she sways in the breeze. _She was just a child_.  I get closer to see the Capitol sign listing her crimes: “Attempted escape.  Possession of malicious material.  Theft.  Verbal abuse of Peacekeeper.”

My eyes water and I turn into Cato’s chest before I cry.  He guards my head from the view.  “Why don’t they cut her down,” the fury is evident in his voice.  “She’s just a child.”

I sniffle, then look up at him. “Because they want everyone to see what they can do.  That’s why.”

“Bastards,” he swears under his breath.  “Let’s go home.  Now.”  Guiding me away by the hand, he hustles us back to the house.  I school my features and follow obediently.

***

Training continues, snow melts, spring approaches.  The fence remains electrified all winter.  Scores of District 12 citizens drop dead from starvation and cold.  Prim and my mother never quite reconcile themselves to the frustrations of not being able to help the dying.  My anger grows with every starving child who arrives on our doorstep that we cannot help beyond a bite of food and a coin. 

I finally hear the story of Sheera, the little girl who was hung in the square. Apparently she got close to the electrified fence, and a Peacekeeper interpreted her examination of the wires as an attempt to escape the district boundaries.  Once captured, the Peacekeeper dragged her to Romulus Thread, who searched the girl and discovered a leather mitten from the Capitol in her pocket, a wafer stamped with an image of a mockingjay inside it, and several coins.  When Thread questioned her about the source of the items, Sheera had gotten lippy with him in front of a growing audience.  According to Greasy Sae, the girl had quite the courage.  “Said that she would rather take a you-know-what in his fancy helmet before she told him anything!” Sae laughed, before resettling on a grim frown.  “Poor girl had her neck in the noose before anyone knew what was happening.”

I spent the rest of that afternoon at home in tears, knowing whose fault it was that Sheera had the items to begin with.  Where she got the wafer, I don’t know.  But the mitten, the coins, and especially the symbol – those were all me.

The reaping approaches far too quickly, so Prim and Cato redouble their efforts.  Haymitch and I become lackadaisical with training, staying inside to rest.  Honestly, I enjoy the time to myself.  Watching Cato work with Prim outside – it’s like watching a father and daughter.  He gently guides her arms, encourages her, and pushes her to be better.  He’s much more patient than I am.  I can imagine Cato being a wonderful father one day.  Shaking the thought from my mind, I consider the reaping, rearranging the options in my mind and weighing the benefits and drawbacks of each.

If Haymitch is reaped, he could take care of Prim. Haymitch has plenty of friends in the arena, but that would make it more difficult to kill them.  Alliances fade fast when you have to stay alive – I suppose that could go for Prim, as well. Haymitch is older, less sharp.  He hasn’t been working as hard as Cato has been.  But he’s crafty and slick – that lazy drawl and years of drunkenness conceal a keen intellect.  I wouldn’t want to go in the arena with him.

If Cato is reaped, he could take certainly care of Prim.  He would, as he rightly said earlier, likely be targeted by the District 2 victor.  Cato is, however, the youngest of them.  Perhaps they will review the tapes and realize how deadly he is.  They would also recognize that he has someone to protect and exploit it as a weakness. 

If I’m reaped, I will sacrifice everything to get Prim out alive.  Perhaps the other victors will see this as a strength, like a mother bear guarding her cubs.  But if it’s down to me and Prim, I know who has to come home.

But then, I think, there’s always Peeta.  And I don’t know what will happen with him.

The night before the reaping, Cato and I lay in bed after sating ourselves with each other.  “We’ll watch out for each other,” he murmurs in my ear.  “If you’re in that mentor room, I know you’re watching me.  I will watch you, too.  But you know Snow wants us gone.”

I laugh darkly.  “Me more than you.”

Cato snorts.  “That’s probably true.”

Foreheads together and fingers entwined, we stay awake most of the night whispering reassurances.  _It will be okay_ , he says.  _We’ll be fine_ , I respond. We both know they’re lies.

At dawn, we find each other in the dim light and meet each other passionately.  It’s over too quickly, as we seek the final comforts of our bodies.  I return to my house and allow my mother to prepare us for the reaping. Prim is dressed in a faded dress edged with a pink ribbon; my mother lays out a cobalt blue dress of hers on the bed.  We eschew Capitol clothing.  Prim and I do not belong to them.  We are of District 12 – to be disdained and scorned.  And it’s all the better than they underestimate us again, because we have something to fight for.

After lunch, we assemble at the Justice Building.  I meet Cato there, along with Haymitch.  Peeta stands in the area designated for the tributes who have been saved by volunteers. Prim joins him wordlessly, squeezing my hand for support one last time before trudging to the holding pen. Haymitch, Cato, and I stand together.

Effie Trinket, who I have not seen since the Victory Tour, trots out on stage.  She looks less bubbly than past years, no jaunty bounce to her wig as she moves toward the microphone, her neon pink mouth set in a line. 

I ignore the proceedings and clasp Cato’s hand.  It’s our last show of unity until we’re on the train.  I remind myself that we’re all going, no matter what, but these next minutes will decide who lives and who dies.

Before I know it, Effie has moved on to the drawing. “Our victors will go first.”  She reaches into the large glass bowl, which is pitiful with its three names.  Usually so dramatic, Effie wastes no time this year in selecting a name.  She grabs for a piece of paper, yanks it from the bowl, and cracks the seal.  Her face falls as she reads the name.  “Katniss Everdeen.” 

Cato embraces me one last time, then releases me.  “I’ll see you in a minute,” he whispers.

“Katniss,” I hear Effie call from the stage.  “Please join me.”  I climb the stairs numbly, but feel a small spark of relief knowing that I could ensure Prim’s survival. I shake Effie’s hand, nod at the cameras, and stand off to the side.  I meet eyes with Prim, who is shaking in fear.

Effie dunks her hand in the other bowl, grabbing one of the two envelopes.  Wasting no time again, she tears open the card and lets out a small sob at the name: “Primrose Everdeen."

Silent tears race down Prim’s cheeks.  She takes a step forward before I hear, “I volunteer!”

All heads in the audience swivel toward the voice.  Peeta.  Peeta is volunteering for Prim.  He is saving her life – knowing that he will almost certainly die in the Games. 

“I volunteer!” he calls again.  I clasp my hand to my mouth and bite my cheek to control my emotions. 

“Mr. Mellark has volunteered for Primrose Everdeen!” Effie’s face has lit up with excitement.  The Peacekeepers escort him to the stage, where he shakes my hand.  Peeta’s blue eyes are determined, fierce.  I can see the fight in him.  What he’s still fighting for, I don’t know.  But I can never do enough to repay him for this sacrifice.  For saving my sister. 


	22. Chapter 22

**Part II**

_“Where once I have been caught; I know thy trains / Though dearly to my cost”_ ( _Samson Agonistes_ 932-33)

 

We are herded into the Justice Building and put directly on the train – I don’t get to say goodbye to Prim or my mother. Prim is safe, she will have someone to provide for her, and my mother seems to have gathered herself enough to manage.  Cato will take care of them – they’re his family now. I am overwhelmed with relief as I press down the train’s narrow hallways to the dining car.

The car is empty with the exception of Peeta, who is staring in silent reverie out the window.  He doesn’t move at the hiss of the door releasing its pressure.  I sit down across from him, occupying the same seat I did a year ago.  The uncertainty of the moment, the familiarity of the train, my surging emotions – a thrill of déjà vu runs through me.

As I sit, Peeta shifts his gaze from the window to my face.  “Why did you do it?” I ask, getting directly to the point.  He doesn’t answer at first, averting his eyes to the table at my baldness.  “Not that I’m not thankful,” I continue.  “Because I am.  But I want to know why.”  I lean forward on my elbows, resting my chin on my hands.

Looking at his lap, Peeta finally says quietly, “You know why.”

“What on –” I begin, before being interrupted by Cato’s entrance to the dining car. 

In a flash, Cato has Peeta by the shirtfront and jolts him several inches off the floor. The chair slams against the floor and tumbles to the side. “What in the _hell_ do you think you’re doing?” Cato roars.  Peeta squeaks in fear, trying to push away from Cato with his hands, but Cato shoves a forearm under Peeta’s chin.

I yank on Cato’s arm, which remains unmoving as I pull.  “Cato!  Put him down!  You can’t hurt him – he’s a tribute!”  Peeta gasps for breath and starts to turn slightly purple.

Cato shoots me a withering look.  “You have to know why he did this, Katniss, and it wasn’t for Prim!”  Pinching his eyes shut in frustration, he tosses Peeta into another chair and stalks to the window, flailing furiously in Peeta’s direction.  Peeta pants for breath and rubs his throat. “Could it be any more obvious?” 

“He saved Prim’s life!” I exclaim.  “You said it yourself – she never would have made it out of the arena.” 

Cato turns and points an accusing finger in Peeta’s face.  “You are only doing this because of her,” he hisses and swings his arm toward me.  Moving the finger back between Peeta’s eyes, Cato’s voice transforms to cold fury. “I will kill you if you even _think_ about Katniss.”  Peeta shrinks back noticeably. 

I break in and grab Cato’s hand before he loses control and decides that pointing at Peeta isn’t enough.  Turning his face towards mine, I say as soothingly as possible, “It’s okay.  What matters is that Prim is safe.”

Cato jerks his chin away from my hand as Haymitch strolls into the dining car.  “Lots of excitement in here, I see.  Don’t mind me,” he says with a lazy grin. “I’m just here for the refreshments.”  Haymitch heads to the bar, grabs a bottle of amber liquor and a glass, then moves toward the door.  “Cato, m’boy.  Why don’t you join me for a drink?”  Cato has never been a drinker, so it’s shocking when he drops a kiss on the crown of my head and follows Haymitch out of the dining car, glaring at Peeta coldly.

Peeta runs a finger nervously along his collar and clears his throat. “Wow.  He’s pretty scary, isn’t he?”

“Yes,” I respond with a roll of my eyes.  “I swear, he’s going to have an aneurysm by the time he’s twenty.”

“He’s… uh, not really going to kill me, is he?” Peeta laughs nervously.

I sigh.  “Well, I’ve got to be honest with you.  He’s not your biggest fan.  Cato and Haymitch will control our sponsorships while we’re in the arena, and if we’re separated, I wouldn’t count on getting anything in terms of support.”

“I see,” Peeta muses.  “So my best strategy is to stick with you?”

 _Shit._  

“I suppose,” I begin cautiously. 

“Great!” Peeta says enthusiastically.  “We have a plan, then.”

“We’ll just see what Haymitch says,” I cut in before Peeta can run away with the idea. “He won the last one, so I think we –” I break off, and correct myself. “ _I_ should run my plans past him first.  And Cato,” I add, knowing that nothing I tell Haymitch will be safe from Cato.  “Look, I just want to keep the peace for a while.  It’s going to be a difficult week before the Games.  You need to prepare yourself.”

Peeta’s mouth twists.  “I figured as much.”

Rather than continue what I am sure will become an increasingly awkward conversation, I get up and gather a plate of food.  My stomach has been in knots for weeks and, while I’ve struggled to find an appetite, I know the gnawing hunger that will drive my actions over the Games. Keeping my mouth full will also prevent me from saying anything untoward.

“You should eat, you know,” I say to Peeta over my shoulder, prompting him to keep similarly occupied. “You’re not going to get much once we get to the arena.”

“Good idea,” he says as he gets up.  I realize within seconds that encouraging him to get a plate of food is a mistake.  Peeta sidles up to me at the small buffet, getting close enough where I can feel the warmth emanating from his arm. I take a cautious step away.  Switching serving dishes, Peeta moves closer once again.  I still, trying to catch a glimpse of his expression out of my peripheral vision without moving my head away from the platter of glistening pastries in front of me.

“Those ones,” he murmurs near my ear, gesturing across me toward delicate cookies sprinkled with powdered sugar.  “Those are the best.”

I turn and meet his blue eyes, as his face is mere inches from mine. Shaking my head and working to think of the blue eyes I love, I work to assert as much control over my voice as possible.  “I really can’t have those,” I say coolly, schooling my features into an impassive mask.  “They’re no good for me.”

Moving away before he can get any closer, I drop my plate on the table and retreat from the dining car.  Appetite and obligation be damned – I’m not sitting with Peeta right now.  Slamming down the hallway, I sway with the movement of the train toward my compartment.  I pause momentarily outside Haymitch’s cabin to listen for voice, but it’s silent.  Cato and Haymitch must be indulging elsewhere, I think ruefully. 

Finally reaching my cabin, I sink into the soft bed where Cato and I have taken up residence. While not officially married in the Capitol’s eyes, I’m accustomed to sleeping next to him.  More than that – I _need_ to sleep next to him.  Never in my life have I felt secure.  While the risks of our actions have brought some of the greatest anxiety I have ever experienced, something instinctive in me recognizes that I will not be harmed while I’m with Cato. 

Sleep will not find me now – not alone, and not with Cato so angry.  Exiled by choice from the dining car, unable to sleep, I decide to wander down the hallways away from the dining car toward the rear of the train.  The train has never posed much interest for me.  First as my conveyance to death, the next as my delivery into what I thought would be sexual slavery, I had never thought of the train as anything other than a cattle car – a mobile death row, but with better food.

By the time I pass through three more cars, I realize how expansive the train is.  A galley supplies the dining car; another large car has no hallways at all, but is filled with comfortable couches and squashy pillows facing a large television.  By the time I reach the end of the train, I have stumbled upon a car composed of glass walls and skylights.  Also, I’ve discovered Cato and Haymitch’s hideout.  They turn slowly at my entrance – Cato clumsily attempts to hide his drink on the table next to his chair.  “You’ve got to be joking,” I say, hand on my hip.

Cato grins lazily once he realizes that I’m not going to deck him.  “I don’t remember telling any jokes.  Do you, Haymitch?”

“Naw,” Haymitch smirks. “But I do know a good one about a Peacekeeper, a pickle, and a bottle of bourbon…”  Cato erupts in peals of laughter, the only indication of his drunkenness is a small snort breaking through his chuckles.

“Perhaps another time,” I cut in before my hearing can be further accosted.  “What are you two up to back here?” I ask crisply.

“Planning how we’re going to keep you alive, sweetheart,” Haymitch responds.

“Ah.  Well, you’ve got your work cut out for you.”

Cato laughs again.  “With the two of us working for you?  _You’ll_ be fine.”  The emphasis in his words is clear enough. 

“But Peeta won’t be?”

“Sweetheart, we went over this last year.  There’s one winner.  And you’ve got to go up against twelve other victors, not to mention whatever other hellish nightmare the gamemakers can cook up for you.” 

Cato nods slowly.  “Yup,” he pops the final “p.”  “And so we’ll do whatever we can to bring you home.”  He rises unsteadily and crosses the car to me.  Gathering me in his arms, he smashes me to his chest like a doll. 

“Eck! Cato, I can’t breathe!” My exclamations are muffled against his shirt, which smells at once sickly sweet and toxic. 

“You have to be the one to make it out, Kat.  You’re important. People need you.”  He lets out a bark of laughter.  “Hell, I need you.  And I’m not supposed to need anyone.”

My face is still pressed against his chest, immobilized by the intensity of his embrace.  My words come out garbled.  “Cato, I can’t breathe.”

“Oh!” He releases me quickly, and I stumble back.  “Sorry,” he says with an arrogant grin. “I thought you liked being held close.”

“Good grief.  Why don’t you just sit back down?” I say, a tone of exasperation pervading my words. Cato retreats awkwardly, each jerk of the train magnifying his movements, before landing in the chair harder than he should have. “Haymitch, didn’t you learn a lesson from my drunken foibles before?” I glare at him.

Haymitch smirks, spreading his hands in a gesture of faux innocence.  “What lesson?  That both of you are a lot more fun when you’re drunk?”  His grey eyes twinkle mischievously.

I roll my eyes and take a seat next to Cato.  The forest rushing by swings me into a nauseating vertigo – I won’t be visiting this car again on my journey.  Closing my eyes and centering myself, I turn my attention to Cato again.  “So?”

“So what?” Cato shoots back, lifting his drink for a sip.  “Did you finish up comforting what’s-his-face?”

“Peeta,” I correct wearily.  “And he seems to be doing fine.”  I have a sour taste in my mouth, and I twist my tongue to generate enough saliva to wash it away. 

Cato cocks an eyebrow at me.  “Oh really?”

“Yes,” I respond with finality.  “Is there a reason you’re sitting back here, getting drunk as a skunk?”

Cato slings back the rest of his drink – a sizeable amount.  “Yes.”  He rattles his ice noisily at the bottom of his glass, then stands up with much greater surety than he did only moments before.  “But I don’t want to talk about it,” he finishes coldly.  Grabbing my wrist, he extends my arm out and evaluates my figure.  “You need to eat.  Didn’t you have something in the dining car?”

I pull my hand out of his grasp and glare at him. “I didn’t feel inclined.”

Haymitch chuckles and slurps out of his glass.  “Did the boy get the better of you?”

The stress of the day finally catches up with me, and my composure slips. “Shut the fuck up, Haymitch!” I blurt, before slapping a hand over my mouth at my profanity. 

Cato and Haymitch blink at me in shock before collapsing in howling laughter at the curse word.  Normally I don’t resort to such foul language, but everything has caught up with me today.   Exasperated with their inability to focus, harassed by Peeta, convinced I’m going to my death – again – and treated like a child by my fake husband and drunken mentor, enough is enough.

“If you’re quite done…” I begin.

“I’m done!” Cato exclaims, then grabs me around the waist and heaves me over his shoulders.  “Let’s go to bed.”  Ducking through the door, Cato whacks me on the behind and takes off down the hallway.

“Put me down!” I shriek. Unable to see where we’re going, I pound on his back with my fists. I squirm, trying to free myself, and receive another swat for my trouble. 

“Hold still or I’ll give you a real spanking,” Cato says threateningly.  I still immediately, getting the impression from his tone that he means it.  I haven’t ever seen Cato drunk, but his mood swings are heightened at the moment and, after a life on the Seam, I know that drunken words are sober truths.  I don’t think he’d actually hurt me, but I know that Cato wouldn’t hesitate to fight me if I pushed him too far. 

I bob silently on his shoulder as he takes me through the dining car. Effie and Peeta watch us with open mouths, shocked by the image of me, an irritated but resigned look on my face, and Cato. Without putting me down, he shovels food onto a plate, shoots a murderous look at Peeta, and knees the door release button to return to our compartment.  

Once inside, Cato dumps me on the bed and leaves the plate on the table next to the bed.  I begin to reach for it, when he yanks it out of my grasp. “You’ll be eating that cold.”

I scoot back instinctively.  “No, Cato.”

“No what?”

“You’re drunk.  And mad.  Not now.” 

“You’re my wife.”

“Yes.  But that doesn’t mean that I do everything you say.” 

Cato pauses for a moment. “You promised to honor me with your body,” he shouts, throwing the plate of food aside.  “You promised to be my hearth! My home!  My refuge!” As he roars the final words, I shrink back against the wall of the compartment.  All signs of his drunkenness are gone – his words are clear, his eyes bright with anger.  “What did I do wrong, Katniss?  Do you love him?”

Horrified, I blurt, “No!”

He searches my face, eyes squinted in interrogative scrutiny, leaning over me threateningly. “Did you fall out of love with me?  Am I so awful?”

“No! It’s not that!” I protest, extending a conciliatory hand.

“So it _is_ something. What? Tell me!” he demands. I yank my hand back in fear.

I close my eyes and try to decompress myself.  How can I tell him what’s wrong when I don’t even know what it really is?  How do I express my constant sense of unease?  My fear of death?  Of his pain?  Long seconds of silence pass as I try to suss out where to start.

“Would you sit down?  Please?”  I gesture to the bed next to me.  Pulling my feet together, I sit cross-legged on the comforter.  Cato mimics my position, sitting across from me and leaning on his elbows. 

“I don’t know where to begin,” I say haltingly.  “I _do_ love you.  And I do _not_ love Peeta.”  Cato lets out a sigh of relief.  “But,” I continue, “I hope you know I owe him a debt greater than I can ever repay.  He has saved my sister’s life.”

“I know,” Cato says sullenly. “So then what’s going on?”

“Honestly?” I ask skeptically, wondering if he wants to hear what I have to say.

“Honestly.”

“For the last year I have been nothing but a ball of nerves.  I am exhausted with all of this.  There’s just – ” I break off, struggling to find the words. “Too much.  I mean, you know some of the scares that we’ve had, how much I have worried, and how much has happened.”

He nods in understanding.

“Worse, I think,” I continue. “Is that you just keep getting angrier.  You scare me in a far different way than you did when we came home last year. Now you wield our relationship like a weapon – it’s hot and cold.  When there are no problems, things are okay.  But with every little hiccup you just dissolve into this fury.”

Cato averts his eyes from mine and clenches his jaw. “You know I have a temper,” he says quietly.

“Yes, I do know that.  And a year ago, I could have beaten it out of you.” I smile weakly.  “Now I can’t.  Because, as you said earlier, I’m your wife.  Things have changed.  It feels like I’m made of glass at times, because we can’t be as we used to be.  But now, all of your anger isn’t channeled physically anymore – you just shout at me.”

Cato mumbles something under his breath.

“What’s that?”

“Do you want out?”

“Absolutely not!” I say.  “I promised, as you reminded me, to be your refuge. Your hearth. Your home.” I reach out and touch his cheek. He still won’t look at me.

“What about him?”

“Who him?” I ask, lost.

“Peeta,” Cato says venomously.

“Oh.  Well, that’s complicated.” 

Cato rolls his eyes at me, meeting my gaze finally. “No shit.”

“I owe him.”

“I know.”

“And no one knows that we’re married.”

Cato huffs in disapproval.  “I know that too.”

“So, we do what we need to do to stay alive.  Just like last year?” I plead.

“Well, hopefully not _just_ like last year,” he says with a frown. “Remember the cave?”

“What?  How do _you_ remember the cave?”

Cato smirks at me. “I remember that you took advantage of me – a poor sick boy, who could have lost his arm…” He rubs his bicep affectionately. “Lucky for you that it’s recovered so beautifully.”

I smack him on the arm in question. “That’s enough from you about that.  Any other questions?”

“Have we pretty much concluded that we need to train more and shout less?”

I manage to get out, “I don’t necessarily think that…” before Cato cuts me off with a searing hot kiss. 


	23. Chapter 23

_“how glorious to entrap / A common enemy, who had destroy’d / Such numbers of our Nation”_ ( _Samson Agonistes_ 855-57)

We emerge from our compartment in time to enjoy dinner.  Peeta is nowhere to be seen, and Effie seems to have disappeared entirely.  Now that I have a greater familiarity with the train, I suggest that we go to the lounge with the television.  “Maybe we’ll see who else was reaped,” I say.

Cato grunts in assent while swallowing a final bite of dessert, then dusts the crumbs off his lap as he rises.  Holding hands, we meander down the hallways.  The afternoon has given way to a dim twilight, and the sconces in the hallway light up to guide our way.  Everything is pristine as usual – Effie, as a proper Capitol lady and District escort, would never tolerate anything else. 

I hit the door release button to the lounge car, expecting to be alone.  Instead, we find Haymitch, Effie, and Peeta watching Caesar Flickerman and Claudius Templesmith rehashing the reapings.

“Oh, Katniss!” Effie says.  “You missed the formal replay, but you’ll get to hear the commentary! You’ll never believe who was reaped.  You remember Enobaria, yes?  It’s just so sad.”   Normally I would expect Effie to be overwhelmed with excitement, clasping her hands and exclaiming loudly about manners, but even she hasn’t seemed to recover from the shock of seeing her victor – and almost her victor’s younger sister – sent back to the arena.  The anonymity of reapings, the usual protection for delicate Capitol sensibilities, has disappeared this year.

“Aunt Enobaria?” Cato asks.  “Really?”  He looks down at me in fear. “You’ll have to be extremely careful." 

“I knew that,” I murmur as we join the others.  Tucking my feet underneath me, I lean on the armrest of a particularly soft armchair. 

Caesar and Claudius start with District 1, offering all of the analysis to draw out the implications of each choice.  “Caesar, what do you think of Cashmere being chosen?  She’s a popular victor.  What were her skills?”

“Knives,” Caesar points out.  “Remember her victory in the sixty-ninth Games?  She was so effective with the few items in the Cornucopia.  No large weapons that year, just knives.”

 “Right you are, Caesar,” Claudius says.  “But what about her District partner?  This boy – Onyx – is nineteen, saved two years ago by Cashmere’s younger brother, Gloss.  What do you think of him?”

 “Well, it’s almost too soon to tell,” Caesar comments. _But not too soon to speculate anyway_ , I think. “But I do know that he’s the older brother of a tribute from last year – Glimmer. He’s definitely on a mission here, since he volunteered this time.” 

 “Oh, yes.  I remember – Glimmer, the girl who was killed by Katniss Everdeen, last year’s Victor.  Watch out, Katniss!” Claudius jokes.  “We’ll see how he does against the girl on fire!”

Claudius and Caesar share a moment of laughter.  “Now, on to District 2.  Enobaria Undersee – she’s quite a Victor,” Caesar says.  Cato narrows his eyes and mutters in my ear, “She’s going to be more of a problem than you think.”

“Indeed,” Claudius affirms. “She’s the aunt of last year’s Victor, Cato Undersee.  There’s a family.  Don’t you remember, Caesar?  Cato killed the most tributes at the cornucopia on the first day; Enobaria did as well.”

“My goodness,” Caesar presses a hand to his heart, feigning being overwhelmed by the knowledge. “That was quite a surprise last year.  Enobaria also had that moment – ”

“Yes!” Claudius cuts in. “When she ripped out the throat of that tribute?  Very impressive.”

“Hopefully Cato has been teaching Katniss a thing or two!” Caesar laughs. I roll my eyes.  Why does everything have to come back to last year?  It’s as if Snow has chosen these tributes by hand – he’s found every person who may have a grudge and gotten them into the Games.

Claudius chuckles, then says, “Oh, I don’t know if he has to.  Remember, Katniss killed all of the most highly scored tributes last year!”

“Perhaps we should say that Enobaria should watch out for Katniss?” They both break out into laughter.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I say, louder than I intended.  The others swivel their heads toward me, seemingly surprised that I interrupted the commentary.

“What?” Peeta asks.

“Nevermind,” I respond. “Sorry.”

Once I see that a fifteen-year-old volunteer preserves a small girl who was saved last year – “Clove’s younger brother… Alex volunteered for him last year,” Cato whispers in my ear – I lean back in the chair and close my eyes.  The Quell has gone beyond personal.  “Maybe it will be a record for how many people form an alliance to try and kill me,” I hiss back at him. 

“Be patient,” Haymitch calls over his shoulder.  “The careers were always going to go after you.”

“Comforting,” I shoot back.

Haymitch nods in approval when Beetee, a thin man with distant eyes, is reaped from District 3.  Finnick Odair is selected from District 4, which causes Effie to cry out in shock.  The great lover of the Capitol will soon be out of commission, I think dismally. Johanna Mason is chosen from District 7 – yet another person I’ll have to watch out for.  Claudius and Caesar discuss her strategy in her Games, which were about four years ago, where she played the weakling and then hacked everyone to pieces with her axes.  Haymitch remains silent, even as his old companions withdraw their hands from grasping children and mount the steps of the stage.  The volunteer tributes are tragic – some are too old, too drunk, or too high to climb the stairs, others shake in fear.  It’s clear that the whole thing sits badly with Claudius and Caesar, whose perky attempt to discuss the possibilities of tributes and former victors lacks the vim and vigor of past years.  Quite simply, they know too much about the victors – they’re too invested.  The reaped tributes, unless related to a past tribute or victor, are lost in the speculation and sadness over the familiar faces and names. 

When we finally arrive at the District 12 reaping, my emotional endurance is about spent.  My reaping is discussed at length.  “Will she be as deadly as last year?” is followed quickly by, “What will happen with the wedding?”  Cato squeezes my hand at that, reassuring me as he fiddles with my engagement ring.  Their comments also require the examination of my wedding dresses, which they display on screen along with the current voting statistics. 

Peeta’s reaping also draws some speculation – more than the other tributes, at least.  Caesar and Claudius remark on how handsome and strong he appears to be, and consider the significance of his volunteering for Prim.  “Is he in love with the girl?” they wonder.  “Perhaps the girl on fire has won his heart as well!”  Cato’s grip tightens painfully on my hand, and he only lets go when he hears me gasp in pain.  “Sorry,” he mutters in my ear.  I mouth ‘Ow’ at him, not wanting to draw any further attention to myself, and shake my fingers to unkink the joints.

Haymitch stands up first and stretches his back.  “Well,” he says, “time for me to turn in for the evening.  You kids don’t stay up to late now, you hear?”  With a wink, he leaves the lounge.  Effie rises soon after, claiming that she needs to do something with her nails.  I’m skeptical – Effie doesn’t do anything to any part of herself without at least four attendants to nip, tuck, and color whatever it is in.

Peeta, clearly not learning any better after the incident in the dining car, faces Cato and me.  “What do you think?  Do we stand a chance?”

Cato stands up and stretches himself to his full height, dwarfing the still-seated Peeta and looming over him like an avenging god.  “Listen, kid.  Don’t be thinking that there will be a repeat of last year. There is no ‘we’ with you and Katniss.  _We_ – ” Cato gestures to me and to himself. “We got out because we have trained together for years.  We got out because we love each other.  And if you’re thinking there will be a repeat performance of that, you are seriously mistaken.  Because if you come out of that arena and she doesn’t, I will kill you myself.  Got that?”

Peeta nods, gape mouthed. 

“Cato, that’s enough,” I interject.  “Let’s go to bed.  We have enough to deal with, don’t you think?”

Cato remains mute, but follows me back to the compartment. Once the door is closed, he turns on me.  “Why do you keep undermining me in front of him?  You know how I feel about this.” 

“Cato, I just want to keep the peace.  Peeta could slit my throat next week.”

“Peace… I hate the word.”  Cato fixes his eyes out the window.  His muscles bunch and fists clench.  “Kat, I’m a creature of war.  You would do well to become one yourself.”  He muses for a minute.  “Remember last year?  When Cinna lit our costumes and you were… I don’t know.  I was afraid to touch you.  You were this distant goddess and I couldn’t do enough to worship you.  You have this way, when you’re threatened, of withdrawing into yourself.   And when you do – you are, without a doubt, the most magnificent creature I’ve ever seen.  All those years, you were afraid of not being able to tread water in your life.  And you just transformed into this fierce, powerful being.” 

Cato meets my eyes with a passionate fury.  “Peeta would never dare to hurt you, and not just because he’s afraid of me,” he concludes.

“Oh really?” I answer weakly, overwhelmed by Cato’s words.

“Yes.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because he would rather slit his own than hurt you.  All he knows is the woman – yes, woman.  Not girl.  He knows the woman who would do anything to keep her family afloat. She would do anything to protect the people she loves.  And that, my dear,” he gently pulls on my chin and stares deep into my eyes – blue meeting gray and searching for truth – “is probably the most beautiful thing in the world.”

I blush deeply, not sure what to say, and avert my eyes. 

“Because in this world, especially where we are going, everyone is out for themselves.  I admit it.  I want you alive because I’m selfish – I need you and won’t live for long without you.  I would do _anything_ to keep you with me.” He pulls a strand of hair behind my ear and gazes at me tenderly.

“So,” Cato continues.  “Perhaps I should pity the boy.  He can’t help himself.  Half of the town loved you, from what I gather.  Just – for my sake – be that beautiful and fierce with the camera, but not him.  Because no matter what you think, I will absolutely kill him if he survives this and you don’t.”  He arrests my face between his hands, his gaze forbidding.  “And that’s not an empty threat.  He has nothing to live for beyond these Games.  So what would you suggest, Kat?  Do I make his last days easy?  Do I let him get close to you, only to ensure that he never sees another day?”  He faces the door of the compartment, arms akimbo and his fingers tapping along his thigh, feeling for a knife that isn’t there.

Cato expels a deep breath and turns toward me, his tone vehement.  “I’ll leave it up to you.  You say you don’t have feelings for him, so it shouldn’t be hard for you to back away.  But I know you.  You _owe_ him.  You owe him for Prim.  And right now – according to all authorities but our own – you are free to love him.”

I back away, horrified.  “Cato, how could you say that?  I said the words.  What more do you want from me?”

“I want you to stop doubting,” he says simply.  “Because that’s more than words.”  His face is wan with the stress of the past hours. All I can do is stare at him mutely.  

“Shit,” he says finally.  “I feel like a needy girl here.  Kat, you’re my wife.  Stop defending a boy who has nothing to offer you but obligation and a few moments of a good time before he dies. I don’t get to spend that time with you.  But you know.  You _know_ how to survive in there.  Do what you need to do to come back to me safely.  Okay?  Because you are going to have enough working against you without all of this crap.”

 He folds me into his arms, and his smell overwhelms me.  The crisp smell of starch and bleach, sweat, and fear – that’s new.  I bite my cheek hard to keep from crying.  I can’t cut these emotions away the way I used to.  There’s no repression strong enough. 

This begins our goodbyes. 


	24. Chapter 24

_“Yet beauty, though injurious, hath strange power, / After offence returning, to regain / Love once possest, nor can be easily / Repuls't, without much inward passion felt / And secret sting of amorous remorse.”_ ( _Samson Agonistes_ 1003-1007)

 

Our arrival in the Capitol is met with the usual crowds, who Peeta waves to enthusiastically.  Smiling happily, he shakes hands and allows photos – not the usual for a tribute knowing he’s going to his almost certain death.  Cato glowers at almost everyone and acts as a human shield for me.  By the time that we’re whisked into the prep center, I can see his right cheek twitching. 

“Haymitch and I are going to go meet with some potential sponsors.  We’ll see you back at the penthouse.”  Cato touches my cheek gently and tugs an errant lock of hair behind my ear. “Stay out of trouble.”  Dropping a quick kiss on my forehead, he shoots another look of death at Peeta before following Haymitch out the door.

“I’ve got some business to attend to before the parade tonight,” Effie adds.  “Behave yourselves!”  She smiles encouragingly at Peeta, raises her red eyebrows at me in warning, and trots toward the exit after the men.

I suppose one of the few benefits of having a prep team that is devoted to my upkeep for the year is that I’m used to their ministrations.  Venia, Octavia, and Flavius are delighted to see me once again, and far less critical of my level of filth than the first time I met them.  They exclaim over Peeta’s naturally good looks, but swear up and down that his prep team will have to burn his clothes.  I roll my eyes and brace myself for the body wax that Flavius smears on my legs.

Flavius and Octavia flutter around me chatting while Venia attends to my wild eyebrows.  “What’s that?”  Something Octavia says catches my ear.

“Oh, well, it’s just so disappointing.  We had that lovely ball last year – the sponsors loved it.  But President Snow says that he won’t have one this year!”  Octavia replies mournfully.

“Yes,” Venia continues, her shocking gold tattoos all the more vibrant in the gleam of the bright lights. “It’s such a shame.  Cinna had such lovely clothes designed for you!”

 A calm voice interjects out of my line of sight. “I always have lovely clothes designed for Katniss.”

“Cinna!” I exclaim, trying to sit up.  Venia pushes me back in the beauty chair and continues ripping out hairs along my brow line. 

“It’s good to see you, Katniss.  So you’ve heard – no ball?”  Cinna’s tone is almost speculative, as if wondering what it means.

“Really, I think it’s for the best,” I say.  “Even if it does mean fewer sponsors.”

“Your mentors will just have to work extra hard for you.  After all,” Cinna remarks with a gently teasing tone, “They’re awfully invested in bringing you home.”

I smile and try not to let my fear show.  “So what’s on the agenda?  Are there any hairs left to rip off?”  Venia yanks one out of a mole in disapproving emphasis.  “Ow!”

“Gentle, Venia,” Cinna chides. “We’ll finish up here, then get you into your outfits for the parade.  Tonight will be a bit of relaxing before you being training tomorrow.”

I twist my mouth at the irony of being trained – for the second year in a row. “So what are we dressing as this year?” I ask.  “Lighting us on fire for real this time?”

“Oh no.  You know that I never repeat an outfit.”  Cinna smiles warmly.  “No, I have special plans for you and Peeta.”  I try not to roll my eyes at the mention of Peeta’s name.  “What’s wrong?” Cinna asks.

“Nothing,” I respond sullenly, my eyes dropping to the floor. 

Cinna misinterprets my tone.  “You’ll be fine, Katniss.  Everyone is rooting for you.”

I let out a bark of laughter.  “That’s what I hear.”

Venia tosses her tweezers onto the counter in a fit of frustration.  “Will you quit talking?  Or are you going to force me to keep plucking a moving target?” she squeals.  Octavia and Flavius cover their mouths to conceal their laguther.

“Sorry, Venia,” I murmur apologetically. 

***

Hours later, I’m finally clean and sent to change.  Of course, even after being pronounced clean, I am covered in dark makeup with my hair bound up in an elaborate style that is held in place with spray and pins.  My face feels slightly crusty; my head weighs about a thousand pounds.

Once I emerge from the glare of the hot bathroom lights, Cinna holds up another black jumpsuit not unlike the one I wore last year.  “I thought you said you didn’t repeat outfits,” I say with no small amount of humor. 

“And you said that you trusted me, once.”  Cinna winks and holds the outfit out toward me.  “Get dressed.  Then I’ll show you how different it is.” He turns his back to give me some privacy as I untie my robe.

I step in and zip up.  I’m still confused as to how different the outfit could be – the material feels exactly the same. Cinna turns around and gestures to my wrist.  I fumble at the sleeve and detect a small metal disc, which sends a current through the suit when I touch it. The current produces a light tickling sensation as it moves through the fabric, which begins to glow yellow, red, bronze, and grey.  Cinna has transformed me into a living ember – not the dramatic flames, but the hottest and most dangerous part of the fire. 

“Oh, Cinna,” I gasp.  “It’s beautiful.”  I feel a tear threatening at the edge of my eye.

He smiles sadly.  “You make it beautiful.  Tonight, you are above it all.  You are untouchable.  No smiling, no waving.”

“Okay,” I respond.

“Are you ready?  We need to head down to the arena.”  Cinna dabs a bit of makeup next to my eye, touching up the damage cause by the moisture.

“Yeah, sure.  Let’s go.”  I take a deep breath and emerge from the dressing room.  I’m brought face-to-face with Peeta, who wears the same outfit I do, and is all the more threatening for it.  No longer a sweet-faced boy, Peeta’s features are stronger and more masculine, eyes made even lighter in contrast to kohl-rimmed eyes.  While he’s not much taller than I am, he looks much bigger.  _Not as big as Cato_ , I tell myself.

Haymitch, Effie, and Cato choose this moment to enter the prep area.  “Katniss,” Effie exclaims. “You look positively frightening!”

Cato glances up and down my body appraisingly.  “Not bad, Kat.  You’ve got the word from Cinna?”

“Yes,” I respond.

“What about you, kid?” Haymitch asks. 

“Sure,” Peeta says, staring at Cato challengingly, emboldened by the image he presents.

Cato draws me close to him.  I take a deep breath, detecting a bitingly fragrant perfume that is far too feminine for him.  Wrinkling my nose at the scent, I look up at him, querying with my eyes. 

Cato mutters one word – “sponsors” – and rolls his eyes. 

“I’m going to go brace myself, okay?”  Cato nods and loosens his arms.  I give him a quick embrace, back away and head toward the chariots.

Upon getting to the chariot, I see that our horses are coal black, but have been curry-combed through with a shimmering gold and bronze powder that shines on their flanks.  I stroke one’s soft muzzle and inhale the smell of sweat and hay to rid my mind of the smell on Cato. 

“Sugar cube?” I hear a masculine voice behind me, followed by a crunching sound.

I whip around at the noise, hand braced and prepared to grab a wrist if necessary. I’m met by the sea-green eyes of Finnick Odair.  And if there’s one person who has more to gain by a rebellion than I do, it’s Finnick, I think quickly.  

“Well hello there, fire girl.  Would you like a sugar cube?  They’re for the horses, but I figure we don’t have as much time as they do to enjoy them.”  He grins broadly and I’m dazzled by his gleaming white smile. Relaxing once I realize who it is – and that he’s not a threat – I drop my hand and lean back against the horse.  Finnick’s outfit is miniscule: a brown fishing net draped to cover only the most necessary parts of his physique. The rest of him is dusted with silvery blue-green glitter.

“I’m all good on sugar, but thank you for offering,” I say. 

“That’s alright.  More for me,” he responds and pops another cube in his mouth.  “So, tell me Katniss,” he continues.  “What’s the situation between you and your tribute?  Looking to _work_ with anyone else?” He waggles his eyebrows at me with a grin, making like he’s propositioning me.

“Oh,” I say casually, “I don’t know.  I’m still _checking out_ the competition.” Staying this vague, our conversation is quite flirtatious – it’s riddled with double-entendre.

“I see.  Well, so am I,” he remarks, then gives me the up-and-down with his eyes.  Before he can continue, he’s yanked backwards several feet.

“Odair,” Cato says quietly, assessing Finnick.

“Undersee,” Finnick responds.  Letting out a chuckle that breaks the tension, Finnick reaches out a hand – a peace gesture.  Cato smirks and shakes Finnick’s hand. 

“I see you met my fiancee,” Cato says quietly. 

“Yes,” Finnick responds smoothly.  “The future Mrs. Undersee is quite lovely.” 

“She is,” Cato affirms.  “Will we be seeing more of you later?”

“Of course.  I’ll see you two lovebirds after the parade. Toodle-oo!”  Waggling his fingers at us in his best imitation of a Capitol citizen, Finnick wanders toward his chariot, where he’s met by his shaking tribute partner.

Cat glares after him, then moves his gaze to me.  “What were you doing talking to him?”

“He asked me if I wanted any sugar,” I answer guilelessly as I climb into the chariot, seeking to avoid the reek of perfume coming off him.  Peeta slides covertly past Cato and gets in next to me.  Rather than continue the conversation, I scan the other tributes and victors.  Thankfully, Districts 1 and 2 are too busy adjusting their costumes to pay attention to me, but they look fairly good.  District 1 wears gleaming silver outfits encrusted with diamonds; District 2’s bedecked in outfits that look like ancient warriors.  Enobaria looks ferocious with her wrists wrapped in leather and metal breastplate.  She feels my stare and shoots me a daggered look.

District 3 has one of the oldest former victors – Beetee must be in his sixties – and looks all the sadder for it.  They are dressed in metallic outfits with blinking lights.  There are even tributes and victors dressed as trees and cows – the cows are particularly funny because they incorporated belts of flames, as other stylists must have scrambled to incorporate Cinna’s use of fire last year.  I feel all that much better having Cinna design for me.  Peeta and I might be the youngest, but we look fantastic. 

I feel the anxiety building as we line up to go through the arch and enter the stadium. It’s easier this year, but it’s not the same without Cato.  Peeta murmurs, “Are you okay?”  I stare at him blankly.  He continues, “Because it’s okay to be nervous.”

I keep my features impassive, and instead I try to unnerve him with my gaze.  What the hell does _he_ know about being nervous for this?  I’ve done this once before – and won! – only to be dragged back in again. 

Peeta reaches for my hand and I jerk back from him as if it were red hot.  I know better than to indulge in this nonsense right now.  I say one word in warning: “Don’t.”

Turning my eyes toward the arch, I grip the edge of the chariot as it lurches forward.  My internalized rage is an appropriate catalyst for how I need to appear – cold, hard, and untouchable. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay! I plan on posting another longer and more interesting chapter soon. Thanks to everyone for the hits, kudos, and comments. Y'all are fantastic!


	25. Chapter 25

_“Thrice she assay'd with flattering prayers and sighs,_ _/ And amorous reproaches to win from me / My capital secret, in what part my strength / Lay stor'd”_ ( _Samson Agonistes_ 392-95)

Peeta and I are glowing coals, shimmering with heat and malevolent beauty. I tighten my grip on the edge of the chariot and narrow my gaze.  The audience needs to see me aloof, but that’s demanding too much from me.  Before we emerge from the arch, Peeta meets my eyes and tightens his jaw. 

“Get yourself under control,” he says quietly before our voices are lost in the roar of the crowds.

I glare at him before turning my gaze on the audience, who greets our entrance with “oohs” before erupting into applause and shrieks of excitement.  Avoiding making actual eye contact, I set my mouth in a grim line.  The crowd is deafening, throwing flowers and screaming my name, calling out “girl on fire!”

Peeta is clearly chewing on the inside of his mouth to avoid smiling at the flattering catcalls.  The roses that drift into the chariot are tempting as well – I won’t move my hands to knock them out of the way, and Peeta clearly wants to grab them.  You get _yourself_ under control, I think. Peeta’s fatal flaw is clear – he’s susceptible the appearance of friendliness, too easily misled.  He can’t help but want to reciprocate.  He’s going to be drawn into extremely compromising situations without questioning anyone’s motivation.

And I owe him my sister’s life.  He’s a hazard, and I owe him. 

Before I know it, we have returned to the prep area. My knuckles have turned white in tension on the lip of the chariot, my fingers stiff with the strength of my grip on the metal. Stretching out the joints, I turn and kick the posies out of the rear as I jump down. 

“What’d they do to you, fire girl?” I hear a sardonic voice say behind me.  Johanna Mason, holding the leafy headdress of her costume on her hip, greets me with a smirk.   I freeze, unsure how to answer.  She evaluates my costume and says, “Damn, I wish I had gotten Cinna.  We’ve been dressed like trees for the last twenty years.  You’d think they’d get a little more creative, huh?”  She looks down at her brown jumpsuit covered in leaves in mock despair. 

Peeta hops out of the chariot next to me.  Johanna gives him a mischievous grin.  “Now, did they just miniaturize the beefcake from last year?”  She turns her grin to a faux innocent expression.  “Let me guess.  You’re in love, too?”

Blushing from his forehead to his ears, Peeta doesn’t answer either. 

Glaring at her, I answer hotly, “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Letting out a bark of laughter, Johanna tosses her headdress toward her chariot, and her stylist scrambles to catch it.  “Well, that confirms it. I’ll let you two lovebirds get back to it. Ta ta!”  Waggling her fingers at us much like Finnick Odair did earlier, she wanders away.

“Are all of the victors that weird?” Peeta asks.

I shrug my shoulders at him and press the button to deactivate the electricity.  Cinna, Portia, and Effie hurry over before Peeta or I can follow Johanna’s example and do anything damaging to our costumes. “You were both wonderful!” Effie trills.  “For the second year, you are all anyone is talking about!” 

Cinna gives me a smile and adjusts a loose pin in my hair.  “Come on.  Let’s get you to the penthouse and settled in.  Haymitch and Cato are out with sponsors right now.”

Out with sponsors?  Again?  That’s odd. 

“Effie,” Peeta interjects.  “Can we get videos of the Games that the past victors won, please?”

“Well of course!  That’s a wonderful idea, Peeta.”  Effie beams at him, clearly impressed with his manners.

“Yeah, that’s a good idea, Peeta.  We can watch a few tonight,” I say.  Peeta flushes at my praise. 

Effie herds us out of the prep area and into the vehicles to take us to the training center. Effie, Portia, and Cinna take the first car; Peeta and I take the second.  As we drive across the city, Peeta stares out the window at the lights, which we missed earlier with our daylight arrival.

“It’s beautiful,” he says more to himself than anyone else.

I stare at him in disbelief.  “It’s _fake_.”

“What do you mean?” Peeta asks, the confusion evident on his face.

“All of it.  It’s fake.  Fake lights, fake people.”  I turn to face him fully.  “You know what’s real, though?”  Peeta shakes his head, not understanding.  “When we have to kill each other,” I say cruelly.  “To entertain them.  _That’s_ real.”  I cross my arms and sit back in the seat. 

Peeta doesn’t turn away.  “How can you just say stuff like that?” he asks.  “Have I done something wrong?”

I worry my lip between my teeth, not wanting to answer.  Peeta’s reflection appears in the dark glass of the vehicle window, his eyes pleading with me to answer him.  The uncomfortable silence sits between us for a moment before I finally relent. “You don’t understand,” I say weakly.  

“Help me understand,” Peeta responds.  

I close my eyes and lean forward on my hands. Before I can answer, we arrive at the training center.  Hoping to avoid an unpleasant conversation, I shoot out of the car and head toward the elevator.  The rest of our team meets us near the elevator, and we fly up to the penthouse. 

Once again, Peeta seems overwhelmed with the beauty of the apartment.  He stares openmouthed at the ornate furnishings and glass walls, gaping at the gleaming hardware and decorations that eclipse – by far – the elegant beauty of the train.  Rather than disturb his reverie, I retreat to my bedroom.  I strip out of Cinna’s wonderful costume and take a hot shower.  I stand under the steaming water until my skin is scarlet, breathing in the subtle scent of orchid and vanilla. While exotic, it’s peaceful and comforting.

Finally clean, I emerge from the shower and rummage around in drawers for some comfortable clothes.  I know that it will be a long evening of watching past victors’ games, and I have no idea when Cato will return.

We’re halfway through Finnick Odair’s Games when Cato gets back to the apartment, hoisting a passed-out Haymitch over his shoulder.  Peeta is taking notes on the couch while I sit on a lounge across the room. 

Finding the closest chair, Cato dumps Haymitch with a thump and retreats to his mentor bedroom without saying anything.  Peeta lifts an eyebrow at me.  I shrug and stay where I am.  Finnick has just skewered another tribute with his trident, an enormously expensive gift from a sponsor.  Seeing my nonchalance, Peeta says, “Are you sure you shouldn’t go talk to him?”

I think for a moment, then say, “Yes, pretty sure.  He can’t possibly be in a good mood right now.”

“But he’s been out dealing with sponsors for you for the past day.”

I sigh deeply.  “You’re right.”  I furrow my brow.  “But why do you care?”

Peeta echoes my nonchalant shrug and turns back to the Games.  “I’ll keep taking notes.”

Pulling myself off the lounge, I head over to the mentor area of the apartment.  Effie comes trotting out, gives Haymitch a little look of disgust, and holds up a hand to me.  “I’m sorry Katniss, but you can’t go in there.  Tributes cannot go into mentor bedrooms.”

I stare at her in incredulity.  “Effie, we’re practically married.  And he can come into my bedroom, right?” 

“Yes, I know dear.  But it’s for propriety.  Cato will come out when he’s ready.”  Effie gives me a look that vaguely resembles an apology then shoos me back down the stairs.  I roll my eyes in frustration and retake a seat by Peeta.  

“What did I miss?” I ask.

“Not much.  Odair laid waste to those other tributes.  We really need to hope he doesn’t get a trident.  Want to switch tapes?”

“Sure.  Which one?”  I get up to rifle through the box.

“Well, not District 5 or 6 – those victors are so doped up on morphling that they almost fell out of their chariots tonight.”

“Really? I didn’t see that.”

“You were busy with Finnick Odair,” Peeta says teasingly. 

“Shut up.  District 7?  Johanna Mason?” I hold up the tape.

“Sure.”

We start the tape and I’m reminded of how dangerous Johanna is.  We fast forward through the scenes where she doesn’t appear, then find her about thirty minutes in.  Johanna was especially famous for playing a weakling in her Games and building trust of the other tributes who thought she would be an easy kill.  Hours after meeting them, she chopped them to pieces with axes she found in the Cornucopia.  The careers were unsure about who had killed the others, chalking it up to other, better-scored tributes.  Within days, Johanna had killed them mercilessly. 

Peeta hisses at the violence of it all.  In Finnick’s games, the kills were quick and fairly clinical.  The trident had a way of finding vital organs and striking down the victim without showing the blood.  Johanna’s kills were sloppy and bloody, with her axes often slamming into a tribute’s back or cutting out a chunk of skull.  She doesn’t appear to take pleasure in it, but her pretended weakness is all the more disgusting for it.  Peeta blanches at the violence.

“What?  Didn’t you watch these Games?”

“Yeah, but I was younger and my pa told me to cover my face if it got to be too much.” Peeta looks slightly embarrassed. 

“Well,” I hear Cato’s bass tones behind me, “That’s just pussy shit.  How do you expect to be able to kill anyone next week if you can’t even watch someone doing a good job at it?”  He plops into an armchair and cracks his knuckles. 

Peeta doesn’t respond, returning to the spectacle on the screen. 

“How were the sponsors,” I ask quietly.

“Fine,” Cato says.  I can hear the stiffness in his voice – something isn’t going well.

“What is it?”  I press.

“Nothing.  Leave it, Kat.”  Cato digs through the box of tapes, avoiding my eyes and feigning disinterestedness in Johanna’s Games. 

Rather than try to draw him out, I get up and make to go to my bedroom.  It’s getting late, and tomorrow will be trying.  As I turn to say goodnight, I see that Cato has put on our Games.  Why Effie would include that particular tape in the box, I don’t know, but it’s cued up to where I cut off Thresh’s head. Cato meets my eyes across the room, nods once, and continues watching. Before I turn toward the bedroom, I catch Peeta in my peripheral vision, staring at me sadly. 

***

I wake up the next morning with Cato beside me.  Taking a moment to examine him and appreciate the beauty of his long lean bones and strong features, I see several bruises on his neck and collarbones.  I reach out to touch them, and he grabs my fingers.  Eyes shut still, he says, “It’s nothing.”

Yanking my hand back, I retort, “Clearly it’s not nothing.  I have to go to training.  Any advice, oh great wise mentor?”

“Show your stuff.  They know you can shoot, but they don’t know anything else.   You need to make friends this time – overcome years of relationships that we have no stake in.”  He pauses. “Oh, and avoid Enobaria.  She won’t hurt you in training, but she’ll be judging your weaknesses.  Don’t have any,” Cato says firmly.

“Okay,” I respond cautiously.  “What are you doing today?”

“More sponsor work.  I’ve got to make sure that you have everything you need in there.”  Cato kisses my forehead and hops out of bed – gloriously naked. With a wicked wink, he grabs his pants and heads for the bathroom. 

I struggle into my training uniform and go into the dining room for breakfast.  Haymitch is there, drinking a malodorous combination of coffee and thick brown liquor.  After I sit down and begin loading my plate with food, he says, “Did you hear the game plan?”  With a mouth full of scrambled eggs, I nod and mumble an assent.  “Good.  We’re doing our best to keep you flush with gifts, but there’s no telling how things will go if you don’t manage to get into a good alliance.” 

Peeta ascends the steps into the dining room, zipping up his training uniform and trying to guide an errant cowlick of blonde hair back into place.  “What did I miss?”

Haymitch takes a long sip of coffee.  “The plan.  Make friends.  Be impressive.  Got any talents, kid?”

“Uh, not really.”

“And you volunteered?” Haymitch looks skeptical.

“Yeah,” Peeta says with more confidence.  “I’m a fast learner, okay?”

“Sure, kid,” Haymitch responds genially.  Haymitch’s face is unmoving, but I know his tone is nothing but a way to mask a mess of thoughts.  Ever the master planner, that one.

I finish my eggs and head to the elevator.  Peeta crams another strawberry in his mouth, then follows me.  We arrive on time to the training center, but only a handful of tributes and the District victors are there.  Districts 1 and 2 are both in attendance – Enobaria sneers at me – as well as Beetee and Finnick with their tributes, but otherwise it’s mostly tributes.  Johanna Mason shows up right as the clock hits the top of the hour.   Peeta glances around the room, counting the number of people and noticing the sparse attendance.  Atala – unwilling to delay for a lack of participants – begins her speech that many of the tributes listen to attentively. 

My mind wanders as I look at the training equipment.  My hands itch to hold a bow – I haven’t been able to shoot in months because of the electrified fence.  Rubbing my forefingers and thumb together, I can tell that my calluses have faded with time. 

Once Atala finishes, I send Peeta off to go work with Beetee starting fires while I head over to archery.  Picking up the bow, I weigh it in my hands.  It feels heavier than last time, but I’m out of practice. Lining up my stance, I shoot again and again until I feel more at ease and hit the bull’s-eye with consistency.

Atala’s assistant – the one who attended me during the Victory Tour – starts throwing targets.  I’m back at my best in no time, skewering targets to the ceiling and walls.  I slowly notice how quiet the room has gotten as I refill my quiver.  Enobaria stares at me with a mixture of admiration and hatred; the District 1 tribute glares with outright fury.

“Nice shooting, fire girl,” I hear from behind me. Spinning with an arrow nocked, I am face-to-face with Finnick Odair once more.  “Are you giving lessons?” he asks with a beguiling smile. “I’d be happy to exchange for lessons with the trident.”

A corner of my mouth twitches up against my will and I lower my bow.  “Sure thing, Odair.  Let me get in some time practicing with knives, then we can work after lunch.”

“It’s a date,” he says with a wink.

Hanging up the bow, I move to the knife station.  Finding a small knife, one that is formed entirely of stainless steel, I take a deep breath and prepare to throw.  Aiming at the target, I reach back, only to see a handheld axe go spinning into the dummy.  Refusing to be startled – and thankful for my training with Cato and Prim for all those months – I heave the knife at the axe and stick it on the wooden handle of the axe that is still quivering in the mannequin.

“Well, well,” Johanna says as I turn to meet her gaze.  She’s inches away from my face – uncomfortably close.  “Looks like you’re more than just a nice costume.”  With a grin, she heads towards the wrestling mat and strips down to nothing.  I avert my eyes as she begins to oil up for a match with Cashmere, who refuses to take off her clothes.  Peeta – who is across the room learning edible plants – stares at her with pink cheeks and an open mouth. 

I jog over and lead him to the snare station for a distraction.  “Ignore her,” I murmur.

“How could _anyone_ ignore her?” Peeta mutters in response.

“She’s just doing it to get a rise out of me,” I say as I tie a rope around a twig. 

Peeta looks back over his shoulder at Johanna grappling with Cashmere.  “Uh huh,” he says vaguely.  Mesmerized, he gets up and wanders away from a closer look.

I roll my eyes in disgust.  “Men…”  Fiddling with the rope, I feel arms surround me and see coppery hands begin to guide my fingers.  Sick of being preyed upon, I take a sharp elbow and ram it into Finnick’s abdomen. 

“Oof!” he grunts, then raises his hands in a submission of peace.  “I was only trying to help.  Here – let me show you.”  Finnick’s hands twist the piece of rope into an impossibly complicated series of knots until I see that the resultant snare is not actually a snare – it’s a noose. He loops it around his neck and, with a look of facetious horror, pretends to choke himself with a gagging noise. 

“Good grief,” I say with a laugh.  “You’re terrible.  Know anything better than that?”

“Sure thing, Katniss.” 

We spend the remaining hour before lunch working through knots.  Finnick’s knowledge is encyclopedic, as he spent his entire childhood working with nets on the fishing boats.  The afternoon churns on after a hearty lunch.  I work with Finnick on archery and he shows me the trident.  Johanna works with Peeta on knives and he lifts weights with several of the other male tributes.  Peeta seems to make friends with some of them, as his open way and easy manners are difficult to resist.

Around dinnertime, we return to the penthouse completely exhausted.  Haymitch and Effie sit quietly at the table.  Unsure where Cato is, I give Haymitch a querying look, to which he responds with a shrug. 

Peeta and I return to watching tapes of the past Games, seeing Chaff’s – one of Haymitch’s old friends who lost his arm in the arena – win.  Once again, Cato comes into the apartment late.  This time, however, he’s limping.  Haymitch gets up quickly, tells me to stay put, and follows Cato to the mentor rooms of the apartment. 

“Is he hurt?” Peeta asks.

“Well,” I respond sharply. “He doesn’t tend to limp when he’s not hurt.”

Peeta’s hurt look makes me apologize immediately, and I begin to rise before remembering that I’m not allowed to go to that area of the apartment.

Instead, I go to my bedroom and turn off the lights.  Minutes later, Cato comes into the bedroom and gets under the covers with me.  I’m hit with the smell of an astringently floral perfume along with another more sickly sweet scent – heavy roses and wine.

“Cato, you’ve got to tell me what’s going on,” I plead, reaching for him.  “You don’t have to keep this bottled up.  What’s the big secret?”

“It’s nothing.  Just sponsor stuff.  Goodnight, Kat.”  He kisses my forehead and rolls over, effectively ending our conversation.


	26. Chapter 26

_“Nothing of all these evils hath befall’n me / But justly; I my self have brought them on, / Sole Author I, sole cause”_ ( _Samson Agonistes_ 374-76)

I’m unsurprised when a feeling of déjà vu settles over me throughout the next few days. Cato is largely absent, appearing at the penthouse late enough that I am asleep when he returns.  I spend my days fine-tuning my shooting and knife throwing; Peeta makes friends with a few of the tributes and starts to show his stuff.  Apparently, he’s strong as an ox for being on the shorter side.  His flaw is precisely what I thought it was – his willingness to trust.

“But I don’t see why we shouldn’t try to build an alliance with the District 1 tributes.  They always get good sponsor gifts,” he protests one afternoon.  “Onyx is a nice guy – he’s not mad at you at all about Glimmer.”  Judging by the looks Onyx had given me over the past few days, I’d say that he would rip my throat out even without help from Enobaria, who had been cultivating a small but loyal group of sadistic career tributes and past victors.

Repressing the urge to shake him, I push down a cuticle on my thumb and start to peel the loose skin back with my nail.   “He’s lying,” I respond flatly.  Unwilling to continue the conversation, I rip the remaining cuticle off with my teeth.  Blood wells up in my nail bed, and I retreat to the bathroom to wipe it away. Taking a closer look at my fingers, I can already guess what my prep team will say when the time comes to give me another manicure for the interviews.  My cuticles are cracked and bleeding from my picking and chewing at them; my second and third finger on my right hand have blistered and ripped as callouses have reformed.  In general, my skin is dry and rough from practicing snares with Finnick.  Well, survival is ugly. 

I can’t bear the thought of watching another set of Games, so I head to the roof.  Inhaling deeply, the smell of fresh mountain breeze cleanses my lungs of the artificial perfumes and scents that tinge the circulated and temperature-moderated air of the penthouse.  The wrought iron chairs are still nestled under the arboretum, offering a splendid view of the mountains above the pinnacles of the Capitol’s rooftops.  A pang of sorrow hits me – I haven’t been to the forest in months. 

I curl up in a chair and stare out at the mountains for about an hour, enjoying the silence and serenity of the view.  As the sun fades over the tips of the mountains, I take a last view.  The next days will be crucial, and I won’t likely have another opportunity to come up here.  Retreating to the elevator, I am surprised when the electronic chime indicates that another occupant is at the roof.  Scurrying to the side of the elevator shaft, I press myself against the wall out of sight.  _Why am I hiding? It’s not a crime to be up here…_

The doors slide open, and I can see Cato come out.  He approaches the edge of the roof and flings his arms wide to embrace the wind, then collapses in the wrought iron chair I had occupied only moments ago.  I stay in my spot and watch. 

For the next fifteen minutes, Cato says nothing.  He takes deep breaths, then begins examining his arms carefully.  His breath sucks in a hiss as he touches one spot that’s visible from my perch – a small circular spot. 

“What the hell is that?” I call out before I can stop myself.

Cato shouts in surprise.  “Shit, Kat!  How long have you been up here?”

“A while.  What’s that on your arm?”

“It’s nothing.” He tugs his sleeve over the burn. 

“It’s not nothing!” I insist, as I advance and grab his arm.  Pulling the sleeve up, I can see it’s a burn – like one from a cigarette.  “Who did this to you?”

“Nobody.  Don’t worry about it.”  He steps back from me and pulls his arm out of my reach. 

“How can I not worry about it?”  I move toward him as I plead, but drop my hands uselessly at my side.

“Because you need to stay alive through the next two weeks.”  He refastens the button on the sleeve of his shirt and put a grimace of a smile on his face. “So, how’s that going?”

“What?  Staying alive?  What does it look like?” I scowl.

Cato lets out a low laugh.  “Well, you’ve got an important couple of days.  Who are you allying with?” 

Frustrated by his diversion, I put my hands on my hips.  “Nobody Peeta wants to be friends with, that’s for sure.” 

“That kid’s too trusting,” Cato observes. 

“No kidding!” I say, the exasperation rising. “So, I know I want to ally with Beetee.” 

“Beetee?” Cato asks incredulously.  “But he’s… what? About a hundred years old?”

“Only fifty or so!” I say defensively.  “He’s smart.”  Thinking back to my conversation with Beetee earlier today, I can’t help but think he’s in on some important thing related to the rebellion. 

Beetee and I had been working at the camouflage station, trying to use some of the few paints the morphling victors hadn’t destroyed.  I smiled, knowing Haymitch’s approval of him, and tried to get a sense of where Beetee stood. “How is District 3 doing?”

“Oh,” he began, casually. “It’s not bad.  We’ve had a few difficulties getting materials here and there.  How is District 12 doing?” 

“It’s been a hard winter.  But no real difficulties otherwise.” 

“Ah.”  He had nodded toward the gamemakers, who were seated above and watching us closely.  “They’re uneasy,” he said quietly. 

“How do you know?” I responded.

“They’ve installed a force field.”  Beetee shot his eyes over a corner beneath the gamemaker suite.  “See the vibrations in the corner?  That’s how you know.” 

“Ah,” I laughed.  Lowering my voice, I said, “It’s because of me.  I shot an arrow at them last year.” 

It was Beetee’s turn to laugh.  “No kidding?  I can see why you got an eleven last year.”  He pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose and given me a quirky smile, then wandered off to the edible plants station.  

It had been a short conversation, but an important one.  I felt a strange affinity with Beetee.

Cato breaks through my reverie. “So, Beetee?”

“Yes,” I say firmly.

“Anyone else?”

I frown.  “No, not really.”

“What about Odair?”  Cato cocks an eyebrow at me.

“Do _you_ want me to be allied with Finnick Odair?”  I furrow my brow incredulously.

“I think that you’ll be fed if you’re with Finnick.”  Cato responds coolly.

“I see.  Well, I’ll think about it, but right now I’ve got Peeta to lug around with me.”

“Are you still thinking about trying to protect that kid? He’s nothing but dead weight!”  Cato says angrily. “He’ll do nothing but eat your food and get you killed!”  I remain silent and glower at Cato.  “What?  You know it’s true!” he continues.

I cross my arms. “I owe him.”

Cato assesses my posture. “God, you’re stubborn.”

“You knew it when you married me,” I grumble.

He gives me a small smile.  “I love it when you say that.”

“What?”

“What we’re married.”  His smile grows and he suddenly sweeps me up in his arms.  “Let’s enjoy these past few days. I’m done meeting with sponsors for a while so that I can coach you through the interview.”  Cato sets me down and tugs me back toward the elevator.  “Let’s go to bed.  We need to talk about private training and your strategy for your session with the gamemakers.” 

***

Private training goes well.  With the Capitol’s weapons and a week worth of training, I’m back to my usual lethal self with the bow and knives.  Sparring is another story, but I’ve always been a lightweight.  Cato pins me to the mat and breathes into my ear, “You’ve got to make your hits count.  C’mon – you know better than this.” 

I struggle against his arm futilely for a moment, then whisper back seductively, “Maybe I like it better this way.” 

Cato’s blue eyes darken in lust, and his moment of hesitation is all I need to wrap a leg under his hip and throw him over on the mat.  He grunts as the wind gets knocked out of him, then lays still on his back for a moment. “You.  Suck,” he says between breaths. 

Laughing, I get up and offer my hand to pull him up.  As we join hands, I feel the prickle of hair on the back of my neck and know we’re being watched.  Looking over my shoulder, I see Plutarch Heavensbee in the gamemaker suite.  His face is inscrutable, but he nods his head almost imperceptibly before turning and leaving.  

I turn back to Cato, who is staring at the place Plutarch occupied with something resembling a mixture of hatred and resignation. “Let’s go clean up.  Haymitch is waiting to work with Peeta.”

“Fine. I hope you’re ready for interview prep.”  Cato returns to making a show of dusting himself off. We return to the penthouse and our respective rooms to shower.  Peeta and Haymitch are nowhere to be found; Effie seems to be out and about.  It’s actually a relief to have the place to ourselves – to not have to keep up pretenses or manners in an effort to appease anyone. 

Cato and I meet in the living area and sprawl out on the couches without bothering to sit by each other.  “Glad to know you had the same idea,” I say.  

“Are you kidding?  Peeta has been hogging this couch all week.  I need to reclaim my territory.”  Cato rubs himself luxuriously on the couch.

“What, are you musking it, too?”  I laugh.

“Hell yes.”  Cato picks up a pillow and rubs it under his armpit.  “There.  Masculine dominance reestablished.”

I chuckle, then say, “So, you wanted to work on interview stuff?”

“Yes.  We need people to be invested in you and make sure you have plenty of support.”

“Agreed – is this not the plan every year?”

“But this year, you won’t have me,” he responds with a wink.  “So we need to make sure that you are a figure of empathy and passion.”

“More so than usual?” I ask morosely.  “Because you know I stink at this stuff.”

“I know.  The star-crossed lovers thing saved us last year, but that can’t happen again this year.  So we’re going to need to keep reminding them that you’ve got a reason to come out alive.”

“Well, doesn’t everyone have a reason?”

“Yes, but you’ll have a better one.”

“What?” I ask impatiently.

“You’re not going to like it.”  I cross my arms and tap my fingers, waiting for him to continue. “You’re pregnant.”

“You’re joking,” I snap.

“No, I’m not.  Kat, it’s the perfect protection.  See what you can do with it.  Tell me the story.”

And so we work for the next two hours on polishing the story.  It’s awful.  Just like last year, I have no inflection with the lie.  Much like I’m not sexy or mysterious, I’m definitely not a weepy mother.  If anything, I stiffen up with every passing minute.

“Kat!” Cato shouts.  “You have got to try harder at this!”

“I _am_ trying harder!” I shoot back.  “This isn’t easy!  It’s a complete lie, and I don’t like it.  I can’t be a faker like this.”

“How do you even know that it’s a lie?” Cato thunders.

“Do you know something I don’t?” I bellow in return.

The quiet chime of the elevator reminds me that we’re not alone anymore. We turn to face the elevator, and Haymitch and Peeta stare out at us - Peeta with an open mouth.  

“Did I miss something, sweetheart?” Haymitch asks sardonically.  

“No,” I answer shortly.  “I’m going to bed.”  I don’t bother with calling “goodnight” to the room, but stalk off to my bedroom and sit down hard on the edge of the bed. What is it with Cato thinking that he always knows what’s going on with my body and I don’t?  I growl in frustration and head to the bathroom.  _I’ll show him – I won’t be a liar on top of everything else_.  Digging through every drawer of the bathroom, I find the plastic test that resembles the one my mother showed me.  After unwrapping it and following the directions carefully, I set the plastic applicator on the counter and begin to get ready for bed.  After twenty minutes, I return to the plastic applicator. Two lines.  What the hell does that mean?  I read the instructions again. 

No.  _No._ It’s not possible.  Oh, _shit_.  The shot that I never got from my mother.  She must have assumed that because I never remembered to talk to her about it that I didn’t want it.  Cato and I had never really talked about it.  And now…

Now it isn’t a lie. 


	27. Chapter 27

_“It is not vertue, wisdom, valour, wit, / Strength, comliness of shape, or amplest merit / That womans love can win or long inherit.”_ ( _Samson Agonistes_ 1010-12)

 

I emerge from the bathroom and get directly into bed.  I lay on my back, sleepless, for hours with my hands spread over my stomach. Cato has the good sense to leave me alone.  Fleeting thoughts – blond children, my gutted body, Cato holding a child – run through my mind, never fully materializing in a dream.  This tiny life is performing a hostile takeover of my body.

Mentally, I tick off my obligations from a mental list. I’ve got to stay alive through this Quell.  I owe it to Peeta to keep him alive as long as possible – I can’t be the one to kill him.  And now, I have this _thing_ to keep alive too. I resist the urge to punch myself in the gut as hard as I can. 

Cato and I haven’t had a full conversation in days, and now I know why he’s been working so hard with the sponsors.  He’s performing what he thinks of as his duty to keep himself alive – now I need to do the same.  Today is our individual time with the gamemakers, and I need to make sure that I impress them again.  How I could ever beat a score of eleven, I don’t know.  But I need a plan. I lay in bed for the next two hours, stewing over my options, the available equipment, and the message I want to send.  

When dawn shines through the floor-to-ceiling glass windows, I pull myself out of the warm covers and stand in front of the window as I slowly strip off my clothes from the night before.  I’ve made up my mind, and my strategy is set.  Resolution flows through me, knowing what I need to do.  Dressing in layered undergarments and my District 12 uniform, I emerge from the bedroom, jaw set and teeth grinding together. 

The penthouse is still – no one has come into the dining room yet, and the breakfast food sits in gleaming silver chafing dishes above blue flames.  The fire doesn’t look real, and I’m briefly tempted to run my hand over the fire to see if it’s actually hot.  I extend my hand and take a step forward, when I hear, “Stop!” 

I whip around, braid swinging over my shoulder, and see Peeta standing at the foot of the landing, concern etched on his face. “What are you doing?” he asks.  He’s wearing his uniform as well, but his hair is still messy from sleep.

“Nothing,” I answer coolly.  “You’re up early,” I say as I turn back toward the food.  

“I heard movement out here,” Peeta says.  He rubs his hair and tries to ruffle it into some semblance of order.  “I haven’t been sleeping much,” he says. 

“Nobody does,” I respond shortly, loading my plate with scrambled eggs and toast.  Peeta follows my example and starts piling pancakes onto his plate, followed by a generous helping of sausage. 

“Do you know what you’re doing for the gamemakers today?” Peeta asks innocently.   I nod once and fill my mouth with eggs so that I don’t have to elaborate.  “Yeah, me too,” he continues without prompting.  “I hope everything goes okay.  I don’t want to be a burden or anything.”  Peeta continues to blather in his anxiety.  I tune him out and continue to eat, going back for seconds and thirds until I am so full I could burst.  Resting my hands on my bulging stomach, I belch softly into my napkin.  Peeta pauses his chatter to give me a strange look, shake his head, and leave the table.  

Effie emerges from her quarters minutes later and surveys the wreckage at my place setting.  Her gold-chased red wig bouncing in annoyance, she gathers a dainty helping of breakfast food and sits down to pick at her meal.  Smiling between bites, Effie runs me through the schedule for the day, taking extra care to remind me to “be _polite_ ” to the gamemakers, clearly remembering last year’s debacle of shooting the apple out of the pig’s mouth.  I smile complacently, respond with a sweet, “Of course, Effie,” and get up to stretch. 

“Oh, and Katniss, dear?” Effie calls after me. 

“Yes?”

“My dear, you must work on your posture in front of the judges.  You’re looking positively chunky!”  Effie bobs her head, encouraging me to agree.

“I’ll try my best, Effie.”  I try to stretch my grimace into a smile, but fail miserably.

“Oh, I don’t mean to be harsh, dear,” Effie says, smiling and nodding. “You just want to be your best for the judges!”

“Yes, Effie,” I respond sullenly. 

She looks at her watch and stands quickly.  “My goodness!” she trills.  “You and Peeta need to get going!  Peeta!” she calls toward his bedroom. “You need to go to the training center!”

Peeta emerges from the bedroom, hair now orderly and slicked back. “I’m ready,” he says.  

Haymitch and Cato also come into the dining room, both men looking tired and miserable with circles under their eyes. 

“Any last advice?” Peeta asks. 

Haymitch lifts an eyebrow and twitches up a corner of his mouth.  “Impress them.”

“Thanks,” I say flatly.  Cato averts his gaze, staring out the window rather than at me.  Peeta and I are shooed toward the elevator by Effie, and we ride in silence to the training center.  Joining the long line of tributes, we sit nervously and wait for our names to be called. 

Frustrated by the wait and needing to use the restroom, I jiggle my knee impatiently and think through my plan again and again.  After a few moments, Peeta surprises me by placing his hand on my fidgeting thigh.  I still immediately and meet his eyes, which are a striking blue even when haloed by red rims and blue circles. “You’ll be fine,” he says quietly.  “Really.”

His hand remains on my thigh.  I begin to open my mouth to speak, but my name is called.  The electronic “Katniss Everdeen,” startles me, and I shoot out of the chair.  I turn to look at Peeta, resolving to say something reassuring, but merely squeaking out a “thanks.”

I head into the training center and see the gamemakers looking at me expectantly, Plutarch Heavensbee at the center of the fold.  The force field shimmers from the corner, guarding them from any untoward advances from tributes like myself.  I can’t stifle my grin at seeing it and knowing precisely why it’s there.  Knowing I have limited time, I take my place, centered in front of the gamemakers.  

“Katniss Undersee, District 12,” I say clearly.  Making eye contact with each of the gamemakers, resting my eyes on Plutarch Heavensbee.  Their shock is noticeable and, in its own way, understandable.  I have just announced that I’m married, and now I’m about to do one better.

Slowly, I begin to sing. 

_Well met, well met, my own true love,_

_Well met, well met, says he;_

_O I am from a foreign land,_

_All alone for the sake of thee._

_How can you leave your house and land?_

_And how can you leave your baby?_

I begin to unzip my uniform’s jacket and move my hands to my abdomen, swollen with breakfast food and protruding all the more for my efforts.

_How can you leave your kind husband_

_To go to your death my lady?_

_She dressed herself in finest silk_

_Her child she kissed, ‘twas one, two, three._

_O stay, O stay, O stay at home_

_And pray for your mother, my baby._

_She hadn’t traveled by a day or two,_

_I’m sure it was not three,_

_Till she began to weep_

_And wept most bitterly._

The tears run down my face, as I imagine Rue and Thresh, Peeta’s frightened face, Prim’s brow furrowing as she slept and her screams of fear.

_O who will clothe my little baby,_

_And who will shoe its feet,_

_And who will sleep in its lily-white arms_

_While I’m fighting for my life?_

I draw the song to a close, wiped my face, and said, “Thank you.” The gamemakers stare at me, gape mouthed, tears shining in their eyes. Plutarch Heavensbee, the only one not entirely affected, smiles at me and steepled his fingers in approval. Turning on my heel, I stalk out of the room.

 The penthouse is quiet once more, so I head to my bedroom, determined to take a nap. Once I arrive, I find Cato curled up around my pillow, dead asleep.  Rather than disturb him, I lay down next to him, giving him plenty of space, and take deep breaths to slow my heartbeat.  Resting my hands on my abdomen once more, I feel a small measure of peace, knowing that I have done the right thing.  The gamemakers already know I’m deadly – they had been watching me all week.  But they didn’t know _why_ I am deadly.  Now they do. 

***

Cato wakes me with a series of kisses along my neck several hours later.  “Mmmm,” I mumble as he moves up my jawline to my mouth.  Cracking open an eye, I survey his face, which is inches from mine.

“How did it go?” he murmurs in my ear.

“I think you’d be proud,” I say coyly.

“Did you kill lots of dummies?” He props himself up on his elbow.

“Nope.  They survived another day.”  I turn and match his posture.

“What?” Cato sounds outraged.  “What the hell did you do then?”

“I sang,” I respond simply.  “Trust me – it was the right thing to do.”

“You’re joking.”  He looks shocked – blue eyes wide and angry. 

“Let’s just see what I get for my scores, and then we’ll see what you think.”  I pull myself up and smooth my clothing.  After adjusting my top, I realize I’m still in my training uniform.  Cato stews silently as I rifle through the drawers and find some appropriately comfortable clothes, change quickly, and open the bedroom door.  “Are you coming?”

He grunts in assent and follows me to the lounge.  Effie, Haymitch, and Peeta are waiting, television on, for the scores to be announced. 

“Hello, lovebirds,” Haymitch calls.  “Ready to see your fate, sweetheart?”

Peeta smiles at me knowingly over his shoulder.  Rather than smile in response and risk Cato’s wrath, I move toward an unoccupied chair. Cato plops down next to me and reaches his arm around my shoulders, marking me once more as his.  Peeta fixes his gaze on the television.

Within moments, Claudius Templesmith and Caesar Flickerman appear in all their glory.  Caesar is a slightly lighter shade of blue since the Victory Tour, but otherwise unchanged.  We hear the usual rundown about what the scores mean – a score of one being extremely poor and twelve being the best – why they’re significant – so sponsors can choose which tributes and victors to support.  Cato huffs with impatience and drums his fingers on his leg.  Echoing Peeta’s reassuring gesture from earlier, I place my hand on Cato’s thigh and still his fingers.  I meet his eyes, which are the very picture of concerned.  Leaning my head into his shoulder, I take a breath and wait for them to begin listing the scores.

Cashmere and Onyx score nines – unsurprising, really, given their experience and motivation, respectively.  Enobaria is a ten, her tribute partner receives a nine. Beetee receives a seven, which is fairly good given his age.  His partner receives a poor score of five.  Finnick is scored at a nine – very good.  The morphlings receive a series of twos and threes depending on the level of their coherence, but in general are negligible.  Their tributes receive scores of four and five. Johanna Mason is given a nine as well – she must have done something quite interesting with her axes. 

Peeta and I wait in bated breath for our scores as we get closer to District 12.  “Peeta Mellark,” Caesar begins, then continues with a look of surprise on his normally immobilized face. “With a score of ten.”

“What?” Cato roars.  “What the hell did you do?”

Peeta blushes and starts fiddling with the fringe of a couch cushion.  “I painted a picture.”  

“Of what?”  Cato demands.

Peeta clears his throat awkwardly, then says, “Of Katniss.  With Rue.  And the flowers.”

“Jesus.  You’ve just made her into a target too, you know!” Cato points at me, spitting mad.  

“I honestly didn’t mean to,” Peeta responds defensively.

“Hush!” Effie calls. “They’re going to say Katniss’s score!”

“Katniss Undersee?” Caesar says, his voice rising into a question.  “With a score of twelve." 

“Holy shit!” Haymitch exclaims.  “What did you do?”

Cato turns on me as well.  “I thought you said you sang to them! 

“I did,” I say quietly.

“And why did they call you Katniss Undersee?” Peeta asks.

“Because I am,” I respond, my tone level.

Cato stands frozen at the implication of what I have done.  I have announced that we are married, which means that… “Did you tell them?” he asks, his voice barely controlled. 

“Tell them what?” I ask, deliberately coy.  “All I’ve done is make myself a target for the others.  I sang a song and implied that we are married.  I didn’t say anything else.”

Haymitch whistles under his breath. “You’ve got some balls, sweetheart.”

I shrug.  “So, do we need to talk about the interviews tomorrow?”

“Later,” Cato growls.  Clamping down on my wrist, he drags me to the bedroom.  I look helplessly back at Haymitch, Effie, and Peeta, who do nothing. 

Back in the bedroom, Cato does the unexpected and sweeps me into his arms as he sits down on the bed. “Are you okay?” he asks, poring over my face with his fingers and eyes, touching my cheekbones gingerly.

“What do you mean, am I okay?”

“Well, you’ve had a big day.  And while I want to hear about everything that happened, I am guessing that you’ve had something of a shock,” he says.

“Okay,” I say cautiously.  “First, I am pregnant.”

Cato lets out a whoop of excitement and crushes me to his chest.  I let out a grunt of discomfort, and he releases me, then checks me over to make sure I’m okay.  After he reassures himself that I’m fine, Cato starts laughing hysterically.

“What?” I ask grumpily.

“Just when I think I can be excited about something like this, I realize that you’re going into the arena – all bets are off.”  His laughter dies quickly, as his face falls at the understanding that he could be losing more than me in the arena.  “But I’m doing all I can to protect you.”

“Yeah,” I say as I extend his arm to see the now scabbed-over mark on his forearm.  “They’ve been pretty nasty to you.  What on earth are you doing with them?”

“Whatever it takes to make sure you have everything you need in the arena,” Cato says with finality, holding up his hand to stop my questions and refusing to invite further conversation.  “What did you sing?”

I hum a few bars, not willing to name the song or even say the lyrics.  “I see,” he says admonishingly.  I blush, fixing my gaze somewhere around his navel.  “Anything else you need to tell me?” he asks.

“I touched myself as I sang,” I say, barely above a whisper. “Here.”  Taking his hand, I move his palm to my abdomen.

Cato ducks his forehead and touches it to mine, sighing deeply.  “You’re too good for your own good, you know that?”

I laugh quietly, relishing the moment of our intimacy.  Cato continues to rest his hand on my abdomen, breathing slowly with his eyes closed.  We sit in silence, until we are interrupted by my stomach growling.  He chuckles, then says, “Hungry, are we?" 

The plural isn’t lost on me.  “Yes, we are hungry.”

Cato lifts me up, sets me on my feet, and places a gentle kiss on my brow.  “Let’s get you all some food.”  Taking me by the hand, he leads me out of the bedroom and into the rest of the evening.


	28. Chapter 28

_“O dark, dark, dark, amid the blaze of noon, / Irrecoverably dark, total Eclipse / Without all hope of day!”_ ( _Samson Agonistes_ , 80-82)

 

The next day I wake up feeling more refreshed than I had in weeks.  Perhaps the exhaustion of the pregnancy or stress from the Games, sleep finally found me.  Neither Cato nor I had mentioned our marriage while eating dinner, and the rest of the table knew better than to ask.  Sensing the delicacy of the matter, Effie even remained quiet after receiving a loud kick under the table from Haymitch, stifling questions that rose to the surface by keeping her face in a drink.

Rather than wake Cato, I crawl out of bed and scrounge for my clothes.  Tonight is the televised interview, and there will be plenty to be done this afternoon.  Until then, it’s my time. 

 I grab a handful of breakfast pastries and take the elevator to the roof. Closing my eyes against the blazing sunrise, I inhale the sweet mountain air and step out toward the edge.  Extending my arms and stretching out my shoulders, I feel a pull in the pit of my stomach – hunger and tension.  Oh yes, that’s still there.  Pressing my hands to the small of my back, I pull the kinks out of my back, appreciating the sweet pain of my decompressing spine. 

“So, you’re married?” I hear a sullen voice to my left.  Spinning toward the noise, I see Peeta sitting on the wrought iron chairs.  With a rumpled shirt and red eyes, he glares at me with reproach.   “Congratulations,” he says with no inflection.

“Are you all right? Have you been out here all night long?” I ask.

“What do you care?” Peeta says. 

“Peeta!” I say, astonished, before I can stop the words. “Of course I care.” 

His eyebrows shoot up.  “Really,” he responds, his voice dripping with skepticism.  “Could have fooled me.”

“What?  Is this because of the scoring last night?” I ask, hand on my hip. 

“You don’t even get it, do you?” Peeta retorts venomously.  “I’m here,” he gestures around us, “for you.  I came here for _you_.  Because I love you.  I’ve loved you since I was a kid.  And you’re married?” 

I repress a sigh.  He’s finally said it – answering the question that he refused to answer on the train – and it’s exactly what I was afraid of.  There has been electricity between us, certainly. The possibility of something more – perhaps.  But it is all speculation – nothing more.  There _can’t_ be anything more. 

“Peeta,” I begin softly.  “We did our toasting.  Cato and I – we’ve known each other since we were children. I don’t know what else to say.” 

“That doesn’t mean he’s right for you,” Peeta answers hotly, verbalizing all the fears I had held over the past months.  “I’ve seen how nasty he can be to you.  You deserve better!” 

I flush, remembering scenes in front of the bakery, on the train, and in the penthouse.  Cato hasn’t exactly presented and endearing front.  If anything, he’s done nothing but bully me and threaten Peeta whenever we’ve been around other people.  “Peeta,” I try again. “We’ve done our toasting – ”

Peeta cuts me off, hope in his voice. “So you haven’t gotten officially married yet?” 

I shake my head in frustration. “Peeta, they just announced my married name on national television. I don’t know what else to tell you.”

Rising out of the chair and coming toward me, Peeta crosses his arms.  “Tell me that you didn’t feel anything for me.  Before all this.”

I clench my hands and stare at the ground.  I can feel panic rising – I hate these sorts of games.  Peeta has sacrificed himself so my sister will live.  And I feel something for him just for that… I did the same thing.  And there was a connection even before that.  In another world – another place – I would be drawn to him.

Meeting his eyes after a long moment of tense silence, I begin to plead. “Peeta, I…” Spreading my hands, trying to make him understand, I run out of words.  Language is insufficient to express the conflict.

Peeta narrows his eyes and scrutinizes my face.  Seeing my floundering, he breaks into a huge smile. “I _knew_ it!” he cheers.  

“Knew what?” I hear from behind me.  Whipping around, I see Cato shrugging into a sweatshirt and looking genuinely curious.  Peeta, still hidden from vision behind a small shed on the roof, blanches in terror.  Pulling up the zipper of the sweatshirt, Cato rounds the corner and spies Peeta, who is already starting to back up in anticipation of a coming beating.  Slinging an arm around me possessively, Cato draws me into a long, hot kiss.  “Oh – Mellark!” Cato says with insincere surprise and a grin.  “I didn’t see you there.  Sleeping well?”

“Uh, sure,” Peeta says, shifting his weight and clearly unsure how to read the situation.  I meet his eyes, flushed with embarrassment.  Taking heart at our mutual discomfort, Peeta gives me a smile and says, “I’ll see you later, Katniss.”  I respond with a weak smile Peeta turns the corner of the rooftop shed and heads back to the elevator.

“So,” Cato says, taking my hands. “What do you want to do today?  You have interviews tonight, and I have the whole day free.”

Frowning in confusion, I say, “Aren’t you mad about… this?” I fumble for words again.

“Nope,” Cato says, smiling. 

“Seriously?” I can’t help but be skeptical – Cato’s tendency to explode at the slightest provocation is part of what makes him… well, him. 

 “No. I’m not mad.”  Releasing me, Cato strolls to the edge of the roof and bounces back and forth on his heels.  

Approaching him cautiously, I ask, “Why not?  I mean, a week ago you would have probably thrown him off the roof.”

Cato laughs quietly and flexes his shoulders.  “Yes, I suppose I would have.”  Turning toward me, he takes my shoulders gently and says, “I can’t be mad at him.  He’s got no chance. You’re stuck with me forever.” 

“Wait, what?  I could die tomorrow!” I protest. 

“Oh, no you won’t. You’ll survive.  I’ll make sure of it.  But do you honestly think you’ll ever get to leave my sight afterward?”

As if it has a will of its own, my hand jumps to my abdomen.  Spluttering, I continue, “And who are you to tell me… Because of the baby?  Really?  That’s it?”   

“No, that’s not it!”  Taking my wrist, Cato tugs me towards him.  “Because you’re the love of my life and I will absolutely kill anyone who hurts you!”  Embracing me tightly, I feel the rumble of his voice against my cheek. With a quick arm behind my knees, Cato picks me up and carries me over to the wrought iron chair Peeta had occupied only minutes ago.  Tucking my head into his neck, he holds me like a child.  I am reminded once again of my fragility in comparison to his strength – even more now that I have so much to defend.  “I’ve done everything I can to make sure you have all of the food and weapons you need.  You have to be the one to come out of that arena.  I don’t know what I would do without you.”  He tugs gently on the end of my braid, taking the loose hair and tucking it under his nose like a mustache.  

I can’t help but giggle.  Regaining my sense of our surroundings, I feel what little smile I had fall.  “You’ll be watching the whole time?”

“Yes,” he says without hesitation. “I’ll send you whatever you need.”

“You promise?” The second the words come out of my mouth, I almost regret them.  I know he’ll do anything to keep me alive – and judging by his recent interactions with the sponsors, I have a few suspicions about what that will take.

“Absolutely.  But you should find Finnick in all this – Johanna, too.  I met Finnick on his Victory Tour.  He’s a good person to know.  I know you want to ally with Beetee, and you can.  But you should have someone with some muscle.  Enobaria and all the rest of them are going to come for you – I know it. You’ll need someone to look out for you.”  Cato clears his throat gruffly.  “Even that runty pipsqueak of a loser who is completely in love with you.” 

I blink slowly in surprise.  “This is quite the change of game plan.” 

“Whatever it takes,” he says, echoing my thoughts from seconds ago.  Dropping a kiss on my forehead, he squeezes me gently and rests his nose on the part of my hair.  We sit silently and enjoy the warm breeze.  A flock of black and white birds swoop in the air, riding the drafts of wind and whistling in pleasure. My stomach churns at the thought of being trapped in the arena again, and then… well, I might never see the sky again. 

***

“You can’t be serious,” I say to Cinna after examining the dress that’s hanging in my bedroom.  

He shrugs.  “We’ve got orders.  Snow told us that you have to wear this dress – it’s the one the Capitol voted for.”  The itchy white lace embroidered with pearls, silver threads, and gleaming beads is an unwelcome intrusion upon my otherwise pleasant afternoon.  After spending the morning with Cato, I decide not to fight through the prep team’s ministrations, patiently tolerating every dab and brush stroke of makeup.  Looking in the mirror, I can hardly detect the makeup at all – let alone understanding why it took three hours to apply – but who am I to complain?  Cinna has never led me awry before.   “Plus,” he continues. “You get to wear this.”  He holds out a square box of gleaming dark wood. 

I gingerly take the proffered box and undo the gold clasp holding it shut.  Drawing open the top, I see that it contains a crystalline tiara of glittering white stones set in platinum.  “Cinna – this is too much,” I say hesitantly.  “I mean, a crown?” 

Cinna smiles sadly.  “I know.  It’s really not _you_ , but it will work. Come on,” he says, gesturing toward the dress.  “Let’s get you into your bridal regalia.” 

The dress is slim-fitting with a short train, but much heavier than it looks.  I raise a questioning eyebrow at Cinna once I feel the heft.  He shrugs once more and simply says, “We had to put in a new lining.”  Taking him at his word, I stand motionless while he tugs up the zipper. 

Once the crown is set in place, I feel completely ridiculous.  Peering over one shoulder at the full-length mirror, I see that I’m exactly right. Thinking back to the gowns and suits from last year’s interviews, I’ll look completely out of place.  This gown is fragile and delicate – the opposite of what I would like to project.  Furthermore, it’s hugging a little tight against my abdomen.  I don’t feel beautiful.  I feel slightly chubby and uncomfortable.

Sensing my unease, Cinna takes my hands.  “I know it’s not what you wanted, but it makes an impression.  You remember how important that is?”  I nod.  “Good.  Make sure everyone gets a good look at you.  I spent a long time working on this dress.”  He winks, tucks an errant curl back, and gives me a fatherly smile.  “Time to go.” 

I emerge from the bedroom to find the rest of the District 12 group ready to go.  Peeta is wearing a black suit with pale blue accents – hearkening to many of the costumes Cato has worn over the past year.  Facing the elevator and holding a drink, Cato is in the same severe black suit and white shirt that he wore to our wedding.  Effie is blinding in an eye-watering shade hot pink and mint green.  Haymitch has managed to scrape himself together as well, wearing another simple suit with grey accents that set off his Seam-grey eyes.

“Well, don’t you look nice,” I say, drawing their attention. 

Cato spits water across the entryway once he sees me. “Kat! What in the hell are you wearing?” Cato glares at Cinna. “Are you insane?” 

I smile ruefully.  “Orders.”

“Katniss,” Effie glows. “You look marvelous.  I voted for that dress!  It’s just stunning on you!”  

“Not bad, sweetheart,” Haymitch says, smirking.  “But white? Really?” 

Cato lands a swift elbow in Haymitch’s ribs, sending Haymitch shooting a foot to the left. “That’s my wife you’re talking about, you know,” Cato growls.  Rubbing his side and wincing theatrically, Haymitch is all apologies. 

The only silent member of the group is Peeta, who stares unabashedly with an open mouth.  Avoiding his eyes, I head to the elevator and press the call button. Cato, Effie, Haymitch, and Cinna move to join me.  “Are you coming?” I ask Peeta, prodding him out of his stupor.  

“Oh, uh. Yes!”  Peeta buttons his jacket and follows along.  

It’s a quick ride to the auditorium for the interviews, where Cato drops me off backstage with a quick kiss and a whisper of “good luck.”  Peeta and I join the waiting tributes and victors, who stare at me with unrestrained curiosity. 

Johanna Mason is the first to speak.  “What the fuck are you wearing, Everdeen?” 

“Snow’s orders,” I say dourly as I itch my lower back.  I can barely feel my nails through the new lining Cinna has put in. 

Enobaria glares, looking me up and down.  “That’s cheap,” she hisses accusingly. “Playing up this whole marriage thing?  You’re nothing but a whore.”

“Whoa!” Peeta interjects.  “Let’s all settle down!  We’ve got to be on stage in a minute.”

“How about you shut up, Lover Boy?” Onyx, the District 1 tribute, interjects. “It’s not like _you’re_ going to marry her, so you might as well get over your crush now!”

Jutting a finger in his chest, Johanna says, “How about _you_ shut the fuck up, asshole, before you guarantee you get an axe in the back?”  I take a step back, shocked at Johanna’s defense. 

Peeta turns crimson at Onyx’s accusation as Finnick steps in, his arms spread to separate Onyx and Johanna.  “Guys, none of us wants to be here, remember?” Straightening his tie and putting on his brightest smile, Finnick says, “For now, it’s show time.” 

The stage crew gives us the prompt to line up according to District, tributes going first.  Shooting me a last look of disdain, Onyx takes the stage.  Admittedly, he’s handsome in his gleaming back suit and blonde hair, the very image of his sister. Caesar welcomes him with grace, but cuts immediately to the chase. 

“So, Onyx.  You and your family had a difficult year.”  Caesar states it as a fact rather than a question. 

“Oh yes, Caesar,” Onyx’s voice quivers with what is obviously fake emotion.  “Losing my sister, Glimmer – it was awful.  But I knew I had a great opportunity to come back for the Quell.” 

“An opportunity?” Caesar asks, but it’s clear what Onyx is getting at. 

“Well, my sister had a difficult death.  I am looking forward to bringing victory home to my family.”  Onyx’s grin tightens perceptibly as his eyes narrow.

Caesar nods empathetically. “Were you and your sister close?” 

“Absolutely.  She taught me everything she knew,” Onyx grins.  The women – and some of the men – in the audience titter at his smile, already swooning at what could be a handsome victor. _Pf,_ I think from my perch off stage.  _I hope you’re better with a bow than she is, because her looks didn’t save her._   The remaining minutes of Onyx’s stage time are nothing but drivel, with Onyx making obligatory gestures to the audience to curry their favor.  

Cashmere’s presence on stage goes over quite similarly.  Another beautiful victor, Cashmere plays on her looks and popularity.  The only difference is her obvious regret.  “It’s so sad, Caesar,” she says, a crocodile tear in her eye. “I’m going to miss the Capitol so much!  Everyone here is so lovely.”  The audience moans in sympathy, calling out that they will always love her.  Cashmere kisses her hand and blows it out to the crowd. 

The District 2 tribute – whose name I learn is Mason – is cut from the same sinewy and hard cloth as his sister, Clove.  However, where Clove relied on a fine balance of insincere sweetness and lethal brutality, Mason is as quiet as Alex was last year.  Not a large boy, Mason’s soft voice requires that the audience listen in a hushed silence as he relays the mourning of his family over his sister – the loss of a warrior.  Mason is perhaps more frightening, as he is unwilling to be drawn into Caesar’s prodding about the possibility of revenge on me.  “No,” he says simply. “I’ll do whatever I have to do to survive.”  His words resonate with Cato’s.  Those who seek revenge want a show and often get caught up in the narrative of it all.  Survivors know that death doesn’t have to be pretty; it just has to be death.  Another one to watch out for.

Enobaria takes the stage next, her gleaming gold dress shimmering along with her pointed, gold-capped teeth.  Caesar cannot get her to discuss Clove at all. Enobaria smiles at Caesar, who recoils unconsciously from her teeth, and simply says, “She was a brave girl.”  The audience coos in remorse again, unwilling to see their own part in this vulgar spectacle.

The remaining tributes are unmemorable; the victors are the real show.  Finnick recites a goodbye poem to an unnamed lover – the audience squeals in excitement.  Beetee calls into question the legality of the Quell; a morphling vomits onto the stage and falls out of the interview chair.  Johanna speculates about whether or not they could prevent the victors from returning, because obviously there is such love between the victors and Panem.  Cecelia, the victor from District 8, gives a tearful farewell to the audience and calls on them to look after her children. It’s a nice diversion from the earlier victors and tributes, whose sole purpose for being here is to kill me.

 By the time Peeta gets onto the stage, the audience is a nervous wreck and Caesar is patting off his forehead with a handkerchief. With a bit of witty banter and repartee, Caesar regains control of the audience, which Peeta has masterfully maneuvered. Sensing the end was near, Caesar asks _the_ question.  “Peeta,” Caesar says slowly, looking relieved to be almost done, and to the meat of the interviews. “Why did you volunteer?  Did you know that girl before the reaping?”

“No, Caesar,” Peeta responds smoothly.  “I didn’t really know Katniss’s sister.”

Caesar’s eyes light up – this is clearly the answer he wanted. “Really? So why did you volunteer for her?”

Peeta takes a deep breath.  “You know, Caesar.  I really can’t say.  It felt like the right thing to do.  I mean, sending a kid like that to the arena?  It just seemed wrong.”  My body goes cold, and the audience gasps.  Does Peeta know what he’s saying?  He’s questioning the entire system of the Games on national television!  The buzzer sounds to indicate time is up, and the audience is crying out at the injustice of not hearing more. 

 After Peeta leaves the stage, I pinch my cheeks to bring the color back into them and prepare to mount the steps.  Caesar calls out, “And now – the victor you’ve all been waiting for, the girl on fire!”  The audience explodes into applause and cheers as the ground shakes under my feet. Once I appear on stage in the white lace dress, the decibels are amplified, as the bride begins her slow trek to death. 

I take my seat, and Caesar starts right away.  After all, there are important questions to be asked.  “Katniss, you look lovely.  Doesn’t she look marvelous, everyone?” The crowd shouts back in the affirmative.  “How tragic that you won’t be able to wear it for your wedding day.” 

“Oh, Caesar,” I say mournfully. “It’s so sad.  Cato and I truly wanted everyone to be present for our wedding.  But can you keep a secret?” I ask, shooting a wink out at the audience.  Caesar nods conspiratorially.  “We had our own little ceremony before we left.” I continue to explain toasting, making it out to be a quaint little ritual from backwater District 12, and conclude, “But it was important to get it done.” 

“What do you mean?” Caesar asks. 

“Well, Cato and I just couldn’t wait.”  I say, hoping that my voice conveys an endearing sense of sexual frustration.

“Oh, I see!” Caesar says knowingly.  The audience, catching on to the insinuation, hoots at the suggestiveness of what I’ve said.  “Well, Katniss, it’s hard to be patient.”

“Well, it’s more than that, Caesar,” I say with a small laugh. Slowly moving my hand to my abdomen, I put on a secretive smile.

“Oh. Oh!” Understanding dawns on Caesar’s face.  “You mean?”

“Yes,” I say.  The audience, finally comprehending our conversation, begins to shout in excitement.  “But now I see that I’m probably not coming home,” I raise my voice, my microphoned words cutting through their cries.  “And neither is this.” Gazing down at my belly, I feel real tears rising. The buzzer goes off before Caesar can ask any more questions.  Rising slowly, I turn toward the audience.  Suddenly, the lacy dress begins to smolder.  The audience shrieks in alarm – Caesar steps back in worry.  The fabric burns away, revealing a silky black dress with the white lace untouched under my arms.  The crown’s white jewels have burned to jet.  I am a mockingjay – born of fire, rising triumphant, and now given a reason to survive.


	29. Chapter 29

_“Who durst not with thir whole united powers / In fight withstand me single and unarm’d?”_ ( _Samson Agonistes_ 1110-11)

The next day is a flood of phone calls and messages rushing to Cato and Haymitch, who are swamped by the sheer load of sponsors.  No longer satisfied with the revenge story of Onyx and Mason, to hear Haymitch tell it, the Capitol citizens empathized with the pregnant girl whose romantic story complemented her deadly aim.  It would be easy to feel resentful of their eleventh-hour faith depriving me of my husband, but I am oddly at peace considering how I had transformed into a symbol of rebellion before the watching world.

Basking in the sunlight on the window seat of my bedroom, I cross my hands at the waist and gaze out at the bustling city that is silenced by the thick glass.  Slowly, I turn through my memories from my life, knowing that they could be gone in an instant tomorrow.  The feeling of my mother braiding my hair, my father’s smile – these are my earliest recollections.  Of course, they’re more impressions, things I feel like I remember, but are probably a superimposition of my hopes on the past.   

Other images and moments loop through my mind.  The taste of the cookie Peeta gave me.  Falling when I first met Cato.  Running through the woods.  Climbing a tree.  The feeling of snow. 

 _Prim_ – her arrival.  I remember the squalling baby who quieted at the slightest touch, and her blond fuzz that erupted in tufts over her head. I can’t help by smile as I recall her first stumbling steps. Prim is utterly precious to me, and all of this will be well worth it if she can live without the fear and hunger that shaped my childhood.  I close my eyes and imagine the sensation of my hands twining her hair into pigtail braids.

And then there’s Cato. Desire blossoms under my hands as I conjure up a picture of his half smile, the determined glint in his eyes, and – even though it terrifies me – his simultaneous fury and glee at the kill.  I have part of him within me, and I am the stronger for it.  While I never thought much about having children, the idea that a piece of him will remain with me, perhaps forever if I am killed tomorrow, is a small comfort.  After all, it’s something to fight for. 

After much ruminating over the past weeks, I realize that I am the one to kill now.  Snow obviously had a hand in my name being drawn, and getting a score of twelve was a way for him to put a target on my back without actually having to pull the trigger.  I have to hope that Plutarch Heavensbee had a miraculous plan cooked up, because I am a dead woman without his help from the control room.

 _Well_ , I think, _Snow didn’t plan on the ‘Mockingjay’ showing up last night either_.  I feel my lips twitch into a cruel grin.  While I may not get the opportunity to kill the man myself, I know that Cato will be the one wielding the sword come time.

“Katniss, dear?” Effie breaks my reverie, calling into the bedroom.  “It’s time for dinner!”

Time to begin my final night of security and safety.

***

 Haymitch is the one sent to meet with the sponsors while Cato spends the remainder of the evening with me.  Cato is coolly courteous to Peeta, who has no such comforts as we wind down the final anxious hours.  The three of us lounge on the couches, watching the forest scenes on the glass walls.

 Cato takes a surreptitious sniff of my hair, as I feel a quick cold spot at the crown of my head before it turns warm at his exhale.  With a rumble of satisfaction, he settles more comfortably around me.  Shooting a furtive glance in Peeta’s direction, I see him looking almost pleased at these signs of our final embraces.  Confused, I tuck my face into Cato’s shoulder and close my eyes. A peaceful minute passes.

“Damn it all!” I hear as the elevator doors sweep open.  Cato’s arms tense around me, smashing my face into his armpit protectively. “I can’t believe those ridiculous buggers are …” Haymitch’s voice trails off as he slams into his bedroom.  Effie comes clattering out of another area of the penthouse and gives us a curious look.  “What on earth is going on out here?”  Rather than pursue the matter further, she scurries away for refuge.

Peeta lifts his shoulders in response.  Cato shrugs out of my embrace and rises from the couch wearily.  “I’ll be right back.”   As he retreats to the mentors’ apartments, Peeta and I exchange a confused glance before settling back on the couch.  Without the television on, we can hear a variety of crashes and thuds from the vicinity of Haymitch’s room.  Cato’s familiar roar meets our ears – Peeta winces instinctively.   “…got to be joking!” Haymitch’s door slams shut again.  “Goddamn bastards screwing with the rules again!" 

My ears perk up at this. “What’s going on?” I call over my shoulder.

Cato strides down the stairs.  “You’re not going to believe this.”  I wait expectantly while he sputters and tries to find the words, an eyebrow lifted.  He runs his hand through his hair, making it stand on end in disarray.  “We’re not allowed to send you anything for forty-eight hours.”

“What?” I gasp.

“All of those sponsors…” his voice cracks in anger.  “For nothing!”  His voice echoes around the glass and metal of the apartment. Cato strides over to a glass vase and throws it against the wall.  “Nothing,” he repeats as he exhales, breathing hard in barely controlled anger. 

Knowing better than to approach him like this, I freeze.  Peeta and I remain in Cato’s blind spot by staying still.  Effie, however, makes the mistake of emerging from the room once more at the crash of glass.  “Cato!” she exclaims disapprovingly, gesturing at the shards.  “What on earth are you doing?”

Cato says nothing, but gives her an icily cold glare. Effie raises her hands in a gesture of surrender, but her lips remain pressed together in condemnation.  Haymitch takes the steps down into the common areas slowly, hesitating by the bar before taking a deep breath and joining us in the lounge.  “I tried, sweetheart,” Haymitch begins.  “But you and the kid are on your own until we can send in help.”

“You’re going to need Finnick,” Cato continues.  “Maybe Johanna.  They’ll help you.  Get you to sleep a bit.  Beetee won’t be able to guard the way they can.”

“Johanna?” I ask skeptically.

“Yes.”

“It’s easier for me to feed two people rather than four.  Have any of them ever hunted before?”

“Finnick can fish. Johanna can kill.  What more do you want?”

I sigh and slump back on the couch, burying my face in my hands. “I want my hunting partner there,” I mutter into my palms, choking back tears that rise at the realization of how alone I will be in such a short period of time.

 Cato picks me up and takes me to my bedroom. Depositing me on the bed, he says, “I’ll be back in a half an hour.  You start getting ready for bed.” 

 Obediently, I brush my teeth and wash my face.  I stall while changing into pajamas, taking a moment to run my hands over the soft clothing.  My right forefingers snag on sweaters, as they’ve become callused once more.  _There will be a bow_ , I tell myself.  It won’t be a show if I can’t shoot.  There will be a trident; there will be axes; there will be a bow.  I repeat this thought as a mantra, again and again, until it’s the only thing in my mind.  The chant lulls my restless mind, and I begin to doze.

I dream of the metal hull of the cornucopia blazing in the sun and weapons sparkling against the grass.  It’s not the same as last year.  The sun is at my back – advantageous – and there is only one other tribute.  I glance to my right and see the other tribute – my chest seizes.  It’s Cato.

I turn to face him fully, hearing the electronic voice counting down from sixty.  _Twenty-nine.  Twenty-eight._ He smiles at me wistfully, futilely.  _Ten. Nine_. And he steps off the plate.  The explosion blasts me back, and I shoot awake with my hands clenching the sheet.

Cato stands in front of me, shocked while unbuttoning mid-shirt.  “Kat?  Are you all right?”  I launch myself into his arms, seeking the security of his arms, another of an increasingly few last embraces.  Unwilling and unable to explain my dream to him, I capture his mouth with mine as we fall to the bed.  I pop the remaining buttons off his shirt and draw him to me, seeking the intimacy that had been denied to me for the last week. With a crash of limbs we find each other, moving together until we release. 

Still inside me, Cato rests his forehead against mine.  “You’ll make it.  Just wait for me, okay?” 

“I promise,” I murmur.

***

 The next morning is a blur.  Cato is gone before Cinna shakes me awake, and the quick process of travel, arrival, and preparation is over before I can process what’s happening.  The suits are much like what we wore last year – perhaps a nod to the fact that everyone is out to kill me. The fabric is slightly lighter, but the boots with a good tread and windbreaker jacket are familiar.  As Cinna fastens my mockingjay pin to the jacket, he looks at me thoughtfully.  “I’m still betting on you, you know.”

 I’m as much his creation as anyone’s.  He’s built my image from the bottom up.  Still, I have to laugh, considering the position I’m in.  “I’d save your money,” I say.

 “Oh, I’m not betting money,” he responds. 

 “Cinna…” I begin, but I’m stopped short by the announcement to get into the launch tube. 

 “Be strong, my Mockingjay.”  Cinna gives me one last embrace before scooting me into the tube.  We salute each other again – three fingers, touching the lips.  The tube seals shut, and I feel my panic rise.

 The door of the prep room slams open as peacekeepers flood the room.  One takes his rifle and slams it into Cinna’s chest.  He falls to the floor, then is kicked repeatedly by the other soldiers.  “No!” I scream, but my voice only echoes in the tube as I pound on the glass.  Tears stream down my face as the plate begins to move.  _No. I can’t lose it now.  Snow wanted me to see this. Bastard._

 As my line of sight breaks through the ground, I’m once again blinded by the sun.  But now, the light is magnified hundredfold, as our plates are surrounded by water that glitters under the artificial sunlight. I stick a finger in the water and lick it – salt.  One less water source… Land is about fifty feet away, the cornucopia sits another fifty from there.  The race to supplies is much more deadly this year.  Beyond the beach, I see a wide band of forest.  To my left and right, there are the two morphlings.  Further down, Finnick and Johanna are separated by Enobaria and Cashmere.  That’s odd.  Where are the tributes?  My vision follows the water line and sees that it curves around the circular beach.  _It’s an island_.  The apex of the island juts up to a small pinnacle, with bands of deep and light green, gray stone, and waving gold grasses radiate from the center like sunrays.  And the tributes must be on the other side, with their own cornucopia.  Two bloodbaths.  I send up a silent prayer of thanks that Prim isn’t here, and that Cato and I spent long summers swimming at the lake on the other side of the meadow in 12. 

 The electronic countdown is in its final stages.  I get into a diving stance, as does Finnick.  The other victors look uncomfortably down at the water, likely wondering what sort of terrors it holds.  Well, we have to cross it either way.  The second I hear the gong, I shoot into the water and begin stroking across the water with ease.  My boots don’t take on water – miraculously.  The other victors are much slower, paddling awkwardly with their heads bobbing along the top of the water.  I make it to the opposite side quickly, second only to Finnick.  We sprint to the cornucopia, where Finnick grabs the gleaming silver trident.  He turns toward me and I make to roll away, when I notice he’s tossing me a quiver of arrows and a bow.  “Look out!” he calls, pointing behind me. Cashmere has made it ashore and is running to the cornucopia, Enobaria is fast on her heels. I notice that they have killed one of the morphling already by drowning her.  The other victors haven't made it out of the water, but will be easy kills. Apparently the victor bloodbath will be where we all die.

Snagging an arrow, I draw my bow and aim at Enobaria, who jumps back into the water just in time to avoid my shot. Cashmere is tackled by Johanna, who is weaponless but jonesing for a fight.  Johanna whacks Cashmere’s face into the ground, but rather than give Cashmere a deathblow, she runs back to the water to pull Beetee out. 

Finnick has already begun to load himself up with weapons, and I know this is the time to select my own.  Grabbing another quiver and bow, I load my pockets with knives and water bottles.  Food I can find; drinkable water may be more difficult. 

“Ready?”  Finnick asks.  “Johanna and Beetee are coming.” 

 _Damn_.  I guess I am in an alliance with them after all.  “Let’s go.” 

We bound off into the heavy forest before the cannons can begin to boom.

 


	30. Chapter 30

_“But patience is more oft the exercise / Of Saints, the trial of thir fortitude, / Making them each his own Deliverer, / And Victor over all.”_ ( _Samson Agonistes_ 1287-90)

 

Whipping our way into the forest, I’m overwhelmed by the spicy smell of cedar and the mossy smell of moldering leaves.  The landscape is clustered with ferns and undergrowth, cross-hatched with fallen logs.  We make it about fifteen minutes running flat out, with Johanna dragging Beetee along behind her, too concerned with his progress to really take in the surroundings.  He’s clutching a spool of wire to his chest – the only item he took from the cornucopia during our escape. 

While Finnick, Johanna, and I certainly could have run much further, it’s clear that Beetee is in no shape to continue.  From the look on her face, it’s also clear that Johanna is about to kill him. He plops down on a tree stump, wheezing with the exertion.  “For shit’s sake, Beetee!  Everdeen over there can run, and she’s knocked up!  What’s your problem?” Johanna barks at him. Beetee continues to pant, ignoring Johanna’s tirade.

“Let’s take stock of what we managed to grab. It’ll give Beetee a chance to rest up,” Finnick says.

 “Well unless it includes a hovercraft to drag that old man around the arena, I’d say we’re pretty screwed,” Johanna snipes, hands on her hips. She presents a formidable picture, with the dim light streaming through the trees and illuminating her hair – she looks right at home with those axes at her hips. 

Finnick begins to dig through the bags we snatched from the cornucopia, laying out the weapons and supplies carefully. I unload my pockets, as does Johanna.  Beetee hands over his spool of wire after a moment of hesitation. Once spread out, I can see that we managed to find some choice supplies.  There’s a small first aid kit, packets of jerky, dried vegetable and fruit chips, matches, weapons of every variety. Finnick’s got his trident; I’ve got my arrows, and Johanna her axes.  What Beetee could possibly do with that wire, I don’t know.  But our assortment of knives should cover us.  Through a process of division, we allocated the knives among us according to skill and familiarity. I end up with a belt of stainless-steel throwing knives, as well as a wicked-looking hunting knife with a curved tip.  Johanna takes the axes, naturally, and then a serrated knife.  She also stashes a machete-style blade an unsheathed holster.  “You’re going to cut your leg off,” Finnick says jokingly.  “I’ll cut _your_ leg off if you’re not careful, Odair,” Johanna retorts. “And it won’t be one that you walk with.”  Finnick winces comically. 

 Beetee is given a hunting knife and a rope to thread through the spool of wire.  “I don’t want anything else,” he says, pushing his glasses up his nose. 

Since there doesn’t seem to be a source of water near us, we take a minute to sip out of one of my water bottles. “Quick thinking, Everdeen,” Finnick says.  “What do you think of the arena?” 

Johanna looks around.  “Well, these are the trees that we have at home.  Cedar, primarily.  And it smells familiar.” 

“But the entire arena isn’t like this,” I interject.  “Did you see the stripes of color coming from the central mountain?”  

The booming of the cannon interrupts me.  _Ten, eleven, twelve_ , we count.  “Wow.  Half of us in one morning,” Finnick shakes his head.  “I wonder how the tributes are doing.”

“That’s the other thing,” I say.  “The tributes have to have a cornucopia like ours somewhere.  They wouldn’t just leave them without weapons and supplies to fight over.  The body count wouldn’t be that high.” 

“You’re right,” Finnick says.  “So, there are extra supplies somewhere.  What else did we see?”

“The different stripes radiating from the center,” I prompt.  “Johanna, you said that this feels like home?”

“Yeah?”

“Hmm…  I wonder…”  I muse.  “Let’s walk to the left or right, circling the base of the mountain.”

We start to wander to the right until we hit the end of the forest.  There, empty train cars and hovercraft hangars dot the landscape, as stretches of landing strips spread out into the edge of the beach.  “What the fuck is this?” Johanna sputters.  A mournful wind whistles out of the mountain and rattles the glass of the empty hangar.

“This,” Beetee says, “is District 6.”

“Disgusting.”  

“That’s not the point,” I say.  “This place is composed entirely of our districts.  I’ll bet if we kept walking we would find something from all of our homes.”

 “But that’s ridiculous,” Johanna says.  “It’s not like there’s anything special about making electricity or having cows.”

“No, but what makes you think that they need to be special to be deadly?” Finnick asks.  “Let’s get out of here.  This place gives me the creeps.” 

Turning back to the District 7 area, we talk out a game plan.  “Okay,” Finnick begins.  “What do we need?” 

“We’ll need more food,” Beetee says.  “And shelter.  And we also need to set up guard duty.  I don’t know how good I would be at that.” 

“But we can’t count on one particular part of the arena to be safe.  So we need to get to a place where all of us are comfortable, preferably someplace a little more open,” Finnick adds, glancing around the forest. “This is where Enobaria and Cashmere would have followed us, so we need to go somewhere they won’t follow.” 

“What about the tributes?” I ask, thinking of Peeta.  “Are they on the other side of this thing?” 

“That would be my guess,” Beetee says.  “Do you want any of them with us?” 

“There certainly are a few I don’t,” I mutter.  

Johanna laughs at that.  “Afraid they’re going to carve you up?”

I rest my hand on my hunting knife.  “Not really,” I respond grimly. 

She laughs even harder at that.  “All right, Kitty Kat.  I think you can handle yourself.”

“So,” Finnick says.  “Where to?”

Before any of us can respond, we hear a shriek.  We freeze – it’s not the cry of a person, but an animal.  Johanna’s face turns white.  “We need to run,” she whispers.  “It’s the forest cats.”

With a hesitating glance of confirmation around the group, we all start sprinting for the beach.  Even Beetee, once so winded, is hurtling over fallen logs and crashing through ferns like the rest of us. I can’t hear anything behind me, but Johanna is running like she’s being pursued by the devil.  I’ve been chased by enough animals in my day to know never to look behind me, but I can’t help myself.  As soon as I have a clear line in front of me, I peek over my shoulder – nothing.  

“What the fuck are you doing, Everdeen?” Johanna screams.  “Don’t look at it!  Run!”

I hear a branch crack overhead and know where the forest cat has been – in the trees themselves.  And that big cat is gaining on us.  Clearing a fallen log, I yank an arrow out of my quiver and pull out my bow as my body flies into the air.  I see the beach in front of us, and I don’t know if the cat can follow us that far.  The second my feet hit sand, I swing around and fire right as the cat lunges for Beetee, who has fallen behind.  The arrow hits the cat in the throat at an angle and plunges into the soft tissue of the brain.  With a final shriek, the cat falls short of Beetee, landing with a thud at Beetee’s feet.  

Knees shaking, Beetee collapses on the sand. Breathing heavily, we stand silently around Beetee and the dead forest cat. 

“Holy shit, Everdeen,” Johanna says quietly.  

“At least we have food for tonight,” I say.  “Is the beach a good enough place to set up camp tonight?” I ask Finnick. 

“It should be fine,” Finnick says.  

“With all the tributes and victors out there, can we risk a fire?” Johanna asks. 

“Sure,” I say confidently.  Finnick raises an eyebrow at me.  “It’s wide open, and we’re a threat from short and long range.  I wouldn’t screw with us.” 

*** 

Johanna decimates a fallen log with her axes once she’s sure the threat from the forest cats has passed.  She carries back an armload of rich cedar and builds a fire quickly.  The sea is unnaturally calm, not even lapping at the shore.  I still can’t help but feel suspicious of the water.  

We sit roasting pieces of the forest cat as the afternoon fades to twilight.  “Finnick, what are some of the dangerous things about your District?”

Finnick laughs quietly.  “Sharks.  Hurricanes.  Poisonous jellyfish. Stingrays. What about your district?” 

“Bears.  Wild dogs.  Freezing weather.  Mine explosions.  If there’s a fire, everything would go up because of the coal dust.” 

“Well we know about the dangers of District 7,” Johanna says darkly. 

Beetee says quietly, “District 3 isn’t particularly dangerous, but we’re known for our electronics.  You can bet that piece is booby-trapped in every way.  I’m willing to bet that they have found a dangerous aspect of every district.  I wonder what’s at the top of the mountain,” he muses.

“So should we just stay on the beach?”  I ask. 

“That’s not very exciting,” Finnick says as he waggles his eyebrows at me.  “And we won’t be able to get much food.  I saw the bottom of the sea while I was swimming in – there aren’t fish or any sort of shellfish.” 

“We have the cat – that will get us through tonight,” Johanna says.  “But we’ll need water.  We can’t drink the salt water and the water bottles are almost gone.”

“You know where we should go for that?” I muse.  “District 5.  They’re hydroelectric power, right?”

“Yes,” Finnick says hesitantly.  

“What?” I ask.

“Well, I’m just wondering how they’re going to booby-trap that.  And if it’s our only water resource, you can bet there will be other people there.” 

“Can we walk along the beach the whole way, do you think?” Beetee asks.

 “I doubt it,” I say grimly.  

“So we stick it out here tonight, and then we fight our way to the 5 area tomorrow.  It’s not that far,” Johanna concludes. 

“Great.  It’s starting to get dark.  How should we divvy up guard duty?”

“Well, Katniss is going to need to rest, what with the baby and all,” Finnick says. 

“I’m fine,” I protest. 

“Are you sure?” Finnick asks.

“She says she’s fine,” Johanna says sharply.  “Quit babying her.  She’s pregnant, not sick.”

“I’ll take first watch,” I volunteer. 

“I’ll stay up with you,” Finnick says.  “We should always have a two-man watch.  Johanna and Beetee can do the next shift.”

A log in the fire snaps and explodes in a plume of cinders.  We all jump at the noise.  “Fuck!” Johanna barks, then glares at all of us.  “We need to get our shit together.” 

The sky comes to full dark, and the Capitol seal comes up.  With the anthem blaring in the background, we see the pictures of the fallen tributes and victors come up.  Districts 1 and 2 haven’t lost anyone, neither tribute nor victor.  “Damn,” Finnick murmurs when the images start at District 3.  District 3’s tribute was killed, as was District 4’s.  Beetee shakes his head and mutters, “What a shame.”

 District 5 has lost both victor and tribute, as has District 6.  Johanna’s tribute was also killed. The District 8, 9, and 10 tributes were killed, as was Chaff, the District 11 victor, and his tribute.  Poor Chaff, I think.  He only had one hand – he was an easy target.  Peeta is still alive somewhere, though.  I wonder what part he played in all this.  Enobaria and Cashmere must have cleaned up at the Cornucopia – maybe even gone to find their tributes.

Finnick and I lean against each other’s backs, facing opposite directions while Johanna and Beetee settle down for sleep. 

“Did you know your tribute?” I ask. 

“Not really,” Finnick says.  “They keep me in the Capitol most of the year.”

“Ah,” I say, knowing what he means.  “I almost moved, as well.”

“You’re missing out,” Finnick responds with flat irony.  “How could you possibly resist its charms?”

“Oh, you know.  Husband and all,” I say with a cavalier wave of my hand.  “Barefoot and pregnant.  All that." 

“Of course.  Who could resist _that_?” he says with a chortle. “You know he’s going nuts up there, right?”

“Oh yes.  I’m sure of it.  Me, down here, facing impending death with nothing he can do about it?  I’ll be surprised if he hasn’t pulled out all his hair,” I respond with a laugh at the thought.

“And then there’s all the work he’s been doing to be sure you get everything you need,” Finnick says with another ironic laugh.  “I’ll be he’s pretty mad about that.” 

“Yes, although I doubt evenings of getting drunk with sponsors is all that bad.”

“You have no idea.”  Finnick’s laughing tone turns cold.

“Oh?”  

“I’ll tell you some other time,” he says.  We sit in silence for a while, listening to the wind in the trees and the sound of the water.

  _Sound of the water?_ I think.  It hasn’t moved all day.  Not even waves.  I turn and look at the sea, which has receded back almost to the launch plates.  “Finnick?” I say hesitantly.  “What’s the water doing?” 

Finnick jumps to his feet and yanks me up by the hand.  “Get Johanna and Beetee.  We need to run.” 

“What? Why?” 

“Just grab what you can carry and _run_!” Finnick kicks Johanna and Beetee and starts loading up with weapons.  “Get up!  We need to go!” 

I stuff as many items as I can in my arms and run to the edge of the forest. Beetee comes running into the trees right as an enormous wave soak the entire beach, dragging our firewood out to sea along with the bigger of our supplies. We stare out at the now perfect beach, with its wet sand gleaming in in the moonlight, as our supplies bob away on the water.  Suddenly I realize – I have my bow, but not my quiver of arrows.  I had taken the quiver off to sit, and now I have lost my surest protection.  I give a little cry as I see quiver sink under the water.

“Should I go after them?” Finnick asks me.

“No,” Johanna interrupts. “We don’t know what’s out there in the water, and all that stuff will slow us down.  There’s no telling how deep it is.”

“I have my wire,” Beetee says.  “I can live without the knife.”

“But,” I say, the desperation rising in my voice, “my arrows!”  I feel naked without them.

“There will be more at the other cornucopia.  We’ll just have to go get them.  No one else can shoot,” Johanna says. “You’ve got your knives.  Aren’t you pretty good with those?”

I don’t answer her, but feel my hand drifting to my waist as I seriously contemplate killing her now.

“Okay then.  Anyone feel like sleeping?” Finnick looks at us. 

Before anyone can answer, we hear the boom of a cannon.  “Nope,” I answer wearily.  “Let’s head to the District 5 area and get some fresh water before I lose our water bottle in another wave.”


	31. Chapter 31

“ _Armies clad in Iron, / And weaponless himself, / Made Arms ridiculous_ ” ( _Samson Agonistes_ 129-31).

 

The water churns with flotsam and debris after the wave, which seems to have hit the entire stretch of beach – not just ours.  As we move stealthily over the sand, hugging the outer rim of trees, then pavement, then windblown grass, I’m shocked that we don’t run into more resistance. 

We come to a halt in the moonlight, listening carefully.  The sound is unmistakable – running water!  I take off over the beach until I reach a muddy river pouring into the sea.  Finnick, Beetee, and Johanna catch up.  “We’re not going to be able to drink this,” Finnick assesses, glaring down at the murky water. 

“Nope,” Johanna says.  “But we can follow it up stream and see where it leads.”

 Beetee rests his hand on the spool of wire.  “Just be careful,” he cautions.  We edge forward toward the grassland from the beach, moving slowly and on high alert for tributes or victors.  No sooner do we try to cross from the beach into the District 5 wedge than I bang my forehead on an invisible barrier. 

I would love to swear, but the sound might attract others.  Hand pressed to my forehead, I curse silently.  Beetee runs a hand over the surface of the barrier.

“Interesting,” he says.  “You’re lucky.”

“Lucky?  How is this lucky?  We’re cut off from the clean water and I’m going to have a nob on my head the size of an apple,” I respond grumpily.

Unfazed, Beetee continues to scan the invisible barrier, searching in the trees that frame the clearing, before saying absentmindedly, “Because most of these force fields electrocute whatever hits them.” 

“Oh.”  My eyes follow Beetee’s up to a treetop, where I see the shimmer of air indicating the presence of a force field even in the night sky.  I need to be more careful. 

“So now what?” Johanna asks.  “Is this area completely cut off to us?  Are they trying to kill us off just by having us dehydrate?”

“No,” Beetee says, flexing his fingers over the surface of the force field.  “They wouldn’t put this river here if we weren’t supposed to use it.  But why we can’t get in there, I don’t know.”

We sit down on the beach, unsure how to proceed.  Lacking any other seating, I lean against the force field and wrap my arms around myself to stay warm.  All of our breath rises in steam into the chilly night air, newly cool after the wave quenched the warm sand.  None of us moves to light another fire.  

“Should Finnick and I resume guard duty?” I ask wearily, exhaustion hitting me all at once.

“No,” Beetee responds.  “You and Finnick sleep.  Jo and I will keep watch.”

In relief, I slump back against the forcefield and fall into a deep sleep.  In what feels like seconds later, I drop flat on my back, thankfully with my head landing in a clump of soft grass.  “What the…?” I exclaim.

“Katniss?” Finnick calls sleepily.  “Are you okay?  What happened?”  

“The force field is gone,” I say. 

“Oh, good,” Beetee says unconcernedly.  His glasses wink in the moonlight.  “Shall we move in?  Or would you like to sleep more?”

“How long have we been out?” Finnick asks.

“A few hours,” Johanna says.  “I’m guessing it’s about five in the morning.”

“Ah,” Beetee says. “That’s clever.”

“What’s clever?” I ask.

“This is District 5.  It’s about 5 in the morning.  Certain sections are going to open and close throughout the day. I’m guessing that they’ll be triggered for certain amounts of time as well,” Beetee explains patiently.

“So yesterday when the forest cats came after us it was around,” Finnick does some quick mental math.  “What – one in the afternoon?”

“I have no idea.  If it was, then it’s possible it could be a clock-style system.  They open up on the hour of the District, with whatever trap being triggered at the opposite hand of the clock.  I’m guessing it’s a different system than just when they open and close,” Beetee says as he pushes up his glasses. “Assuming, of course, that it’s a system at all.  This is all speculation.”

“That’s some nice genius-speak there, Beetee,” Johanna sneers. “We just want to know if we would we get killed if we went in there.” 

“Right now?” Beetee asks, wincing his left eye in thought.  “Probably not.  Unless we get killed by other victors or tributes.  But they ought to be asleep.” 

“Well there’s _that_ ,” Johanna shoots back. 

“I don’t have arrows,” I say nervously.  “I can’t do as much as I usually would.”

“Psh, please,” Johanna says, pulling her windbreaker away from the axes on her hips. “I think we’ll be fine.  Got your trident, Finn?” 

Finnick draws his trident and spins it effortlessly in the air. “All set.  Katniss, you’ve got your knives, right?”

“Yes, but…” 

“Then you’ll be fine,” Finnick interrupts.  “I know you’re tough enough with them.  We’ll get you another quiver – don’t worry.  Everyone’s weapons at the ready?” 

Beetee unsheathes his hunting knife, Johanna grips the handles of her axes.  I palm two small knives and unbutton the hunting knife at my hip.  My bow clings to my back uncomfortably, mourning the absence of the quiver is the loss of a friend. 

“Let’s stick close to the edge of the river,” Finnick suggests.  “If I see any fish I can spear them. Katniss, watch my back.  Jo, you watch the other bank.  Beetee, listen carefully for any movement.”  I hear Johanna snort in irritation.  Beetee is a godsend in terms of planning, but he can’t protect himself in a fight. 

We wander inland, avoiding the crunchy underbrush that lines the sandy banks of the river and keeping our heads up.  At times, Finnick holds up his hand as we get to a particularly still pool.  Pausing at the edge of the water, Finnick stands poised to strike with the trident.  With a small exhale, he plunges the trident into the water.  He wades in after the weapon and jerks out a large, gleaming silver fish that flaps loudly upon the prongs.  “Breakfast,” he says triumphantly. 

“Thank god,” Johanna says.  

Finnick slaps the fish against the river rocks and guts it quickly, tossing the innards into the river.  “Who has a bag we can put this in?”

I pulled a square plastic bag out of my pocket – one of the few things I didn’t unload at the last campsite – and unfold it.  “Here,” I offer the bag.  Finnick wraps the fish up and zips the top.  He puts the fish into a rucksack and motions to keep moving forward.

“Can’t we get some water here?” Johanna asks.

Finnick sticks a finger in the still water and puts it in his mouth, then spits. “No. There’s something wrong with it.” 

The roaring of the river gets louder as we move out of the deceptively quiet waters with their eddying currents.  Once we begin to climb with the changing elevation, the rocks that dot the river get larger and form whitewater rapids.  “We need to keep moving,” Finnick says, casting an eye at me and Beetee to assess our strength. 

“I’m fine,” I say with growing exasperation.  While I’m tired, I honestly haven’t though about the baby at all until someone has reminded me to. Beetee says nothing, but simply pushes his glasses up his sweaty face.

“Let’s go,” Johanna hisses.  “I don’t see why we couldn’t get water earlier.  I’m dying here.”

Finnick crosses his arms.  “Jo, there was something wrong with that water.  It tasted… I don’t know.  It tasted funny.  We don’t have any iodine, and I don’t really plan on shitting myself to death.”

“Fine,” she responds.  “But I’m getting tired and we need to either get back to the beach before this place triggers something nasty or we get hacked up by Enobaria and Cashmere, not to mention their sadistic little partners.”

“I know.  Let’s figure out the source of this river, get some fresh water, and go.”  Finnick motions forward, his trident at the ready. 

 I pull out my throwing knives and nod at Beetee, who still has one hand clutching the spool of wire.  He adjusts the hunting knife in his hand, preparing to strike.  We climb for several more minutes until we reach a towering dam, which is emitting a trickle of water from the turbines.  The dam is narrow – far smaller than the dams in District 5 that stop up the enormous rivers that divide the country – but it’s a good replica of the dams I saw when I went on my Victory Tour.

 “That’s strange,” Beetee says.  “Normally turbines would be spinning all the time and water would be shooting out.”

“Let’s not worry about that now.  We need to get fresh water. Johanna, you stick with Beetee.  Katniss, you come with me.”

“Uh, is there a reason why Kitty Kat is always going with you?”  Johanna cocks an eyebrow at Finnick.  “Trying to move in on Cato’s territory?”

Finnick glowers at Johanna, then stalks off to start climbing the steep hill of the dam.  I hand my big hunting knife to Beetee, figuring that he’ll need the extra protection, then shrug at Johanna and follow Finnick.  I’m quickly forced to use my hands to pull myself up the hill, which has reached a dangerously vertical angle.  Clumps of grass I use as supports yank out of the rocky terrain as I climb.  Finnick and I are heaving with exertion by the time we reach the crest.  My mouth is dry, my tongue thick in between my teeth.  Finnick plunges a hand in the water, no longer caring that it could be poisoning.  Taking huge gulps of water, he barely stops to take breaths. Sated, he looks at me and says, “It’s fine.  Whatever was in the water before isn’t there now.”

 I start scooping up handfuls of water, drinking deeply until my belly feels like it’s sloshing.  I sigh in relief, sitting on my knees and facing the water.  “Let’s fill up these bottles and get some water to Beetee and Johanna,” I say without turning.

“Oh, I don’t think you’ll be doing that,” I hear a voice behind me say, then a thump.  Finnick is down on the ground, not moving, but not bleeding. No cannon – still alive.  Looking up, I see Onyx holding a rock in his hand and with a knife at his waist. 

 _Stall_.  _Stall, Katniss_. _And think._  “Where are your friends?” I ask, still on my knees. He looks huge from this perspective. Good lord, this guy is older than I am.  Bigger.  Much angrier.  _You’ve fought bigger_ , I tell myself.  I shift my weight to tuck a foot underneath me, now sitting on my right heel. I look weaponless – no arrows, hunting knife left behind.

“What makes you think I need friends to survive here?” he retorts as if I’ve insulted him.

“Because it’s your way,” I say simply.

Onyx narrows his eyes at me.  “You don’t know shit about our ways.  But let me teach you about one in our District.”  He tosses his rock to the side and unsheathes his knife. With a lurch, he flies at me and knocks me on my back. The point of the knife comes up underneath my chin, and he digs his knee into my abdomen as he presses his arm against my shoulders.  “You are going to fucking die, bitch.  And I’m going to ugly you up first.”  His breath is hot in my face, and I feel strangely like I did last year when Alex was about to kill me.  Only this year, Cato isn’t here to pull the bastard off of me. 

But I’m here, and I need to get him off of me.  Onyx isn’t as strong as Alex.  And he’s definitely not as strong as Cato.

My fear at having the knife under my chin had distracted me from the fact that my hands are, essentially, free.  I shift my weight underneath Onyx, making like I am trying to wiggle free.  “Stay still, you little whore,” he hisses in my face.  While the knife digs deeper into my chin, I’ve managed to flatten my right hand against his chest.   

“I don’t think I can,” I say.  With one good jab, I smack Onyx off my abdomen.  The knife jerks under my chin, making a small, painful cut.  Once Onyx is lifted up off my chest, I lift a boot a jam it in his stomach. Onyx goes flying and hits a rock with a grunt, where he stills. I slide over the river rocks to where he fell, then land another boot in his abdomen, kicking him square in the diaphragm.  He spits a bit of blood as his eyes roll back in his head.

I sigh.  I don’t want to kill the guy.  He’s down for the count… for now.

Rushing over to Finnick, I roll him over and check for injuries. “Finnick?” 

“Uuuugh…”  Finnick cracks an eye open.  “Did you kill the bastard?” 

“Not yet.” 

Finnick reaches up and rubs the spot where Onyx hit him on the head as he sits up. “Well, if you’re not going to, can I?”

I chuckle.  “I don’t know what to do with the kid.  The bastard nearly cut my throat.”

Finnick sighs.  “Let’s get the water.  Leave him here – I’m sure someone will get him if he’s passed out like that.”

“Sounds good,” I say, feeling relieved. We dip the water bottles in the river and start to head back the mountain. 

Johanna gulps down the water once I hand her a bottle.  “What took you guys so long?”  She takes a long look at Finnick, whose pale face belies his head injury, and the line of blood under my chin.  “Damn.  Who was it?” 

“Onyx,” I say.  

“Did you kill him?”  she asks.  “We didn’t hear the cannon.”

“Nope.  But someone will,” I say firmly.  Taking the water bottle from Johanna, I hand it over to Beetee.  “We need to get out of there before anything gets tripped.”

Beetee takes another long look at the dam, which has slowed its water release to a much slower trickle.  “Agreed.”

We start trekking back toward the beach.  After about an hour, the rush of the river groaned into a roar.  Finnick and I turn back at the same time to see yet another wall of white water rushing at us from the dam releasing its turbines. 


	32. Chapter 32

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Many apologies for the major delay in this, all. I had to finish my dissertation and defend, plus job hunting. I'm hoping for much more regular updates now!

_“Training all his nerves he bow'd, / As with the force of winds and waters pent”_ ( _Samson Agonistes_ , 1646-47).

“Run!” I scream, as we start sprinting to the edge of the District 5 wedge.  “Go!  Go!”  Sliding along the smooth stones of the riverbank, we skid as we run, sliding with each step.  I can see the patch of beach growing larger in front of us and pray that the force field is down.  To drown trapped against an invisible wall, with freedom in sight, would be terrifying.

Hurdling over rocks and logs, I don’t waste time looking back the way I did before when the forest cat chased us.  Now, there is no weapon that will save us, no arrow or spear to stop the horror that chases us.

The water catches us as we reach the low ground. Beetee is swept up first, then Johanna who had been dragging him along.  I am caught, then Finnick.  We flail wildly in the rushing wave, struggling to keep our heads above the rolling currents.  Rolling and tumbling through the water, I keep my grip on my bow – thankfully keeping my wits about me. 

The ordeal feels like hours, but surely is only seconds; the river spits us out on the rocky District 5 beach in an ugly heap of dripping limbs. Heaving to catch my breath, gratefully swallowing the air in gulps, I survey our surroundings.  Finnick lies splayed out on his back, breathing heavily, with his trident thankfully landing by me; Johanna is on hands and knees, spitting out water and snot, axes still on her hips.  Beetee cradles the wire to his chest as he pants. 

And… another person is there.  Wet, shaky, and rising from the ground, I don’t waste time figuring out who it is. Without arrows to draw, I grab Finnick’s trident and fling it at the figure.  The trident lands squarely in the person’s back, and he falls with a shriek to the ground. 

Finnick is up in a flash, yanking the trident out of the man’s back.  He kicks the body over, then rams the trident in the man’s chest one last time.  “Not Onyx,” Finnick calls.  The cannon booms overhead.

“Who is it, then?” Johanna asks in a surprisingly steady voice. 

“District 9 victor,” he responds.  “Nice throw, Katniss.  I never would have gotten to the trident in time…” Finnick trails off. “Not that this guy was much of a threat.”

“Who’s left, then?” I ask. 

“Unfortunately, just the big players for the most part,” Finnick responds.  “Ours was the first cannon in a while.  I’m guessing they are amassing a rather large alliance somewhere on this island.” 

“Yeah – a large alliance thanks to Katniss not killing that kid when she had the chance.  There’s Cecelia still, right? And maybe 10?” Johanna sounds hopeful. 

“Yes, there’s Cecelia, but we have no way of knowing where,” Finnick answers. “And who knows how much help she would really be.”

“So let’s take a tally,” I tick off the remaining people.  “1 and 2 still have both of their tributes and victors.  Beetee is left from 3,” he nods in obvious agreement. “And Finnick from 4.  Johanna and Cecelia, and maybe the victor from 10.”

“And you and loverboy,” Johanna adds. 

“Yes, yes,” I roll my eyes.  “Me and loverboy.”

Beetee shakes his head.  “So many dead so quickly.”

“So at the most,” Finnick muses, ignoring Beetee’s morose comment, “they can only have an alliance of four or five.  Six, if Cecelia joined them, but I doubt she would.”

“Well, four on four seems reasonable,” I say.  “We could handle that.” 

Finnick casts a covert eye at Beetee and says, “Well, if we’re evenly matched, yes.  We will need to get you more arrows, Katniss.  And you know what that means.”

I sigh. “Yes.  We need to go to the Cornucopia – either the one for the victors or the one for the volunteers.”  I am suddenly very uncomfortable in my wet clothes. “Do we need to go tonight?”

“Would you like to die sometime this evening?” Johanna asks rather nastily.  “Our mentors won’t be able to send us anything until tomorrow morning.”

I narrow my eyes at her.  “Let’s go.”

“Our Cornucopia first?” Beetee asks.

Finnick surveys us for a response.  Johanna and I nod.  “Let’s hang to the beach, then,” Finnick says.  “Keep an eye to the woods.  We’re going to have to get back to the area between 6 and 7.” 

***

Finnick takes the lead position, trident in one hand and a throwing knife in the other; Beetee follows slightly behind, staying closer to the water.  Johanna falls further back, guarding Finnick’s shoulder and watching the forest for movement.  I stay at the rear, turning regularly to check behind us.  The sand muffles footsteps – even the clumsiest person could stalk us for miles without making much noise.  I miss the forest intensely.  There, I could stalk prey like a panther while the hunted cracked twigs and crunched on dry leaves. 

Johanna lags back near me.  “So why didn’t you kill the kid?” she asks quietly.

“What kid?”

“District 1.  The kid named after a rock?” Johanna raises an eyebrow at me.

“Oh.”

“Why didn’t you kill him?” she presses.

“I…” I pause.  “You saw how his sister died, right?”

“Yes,” Johanna looks at me expectantly. “Please don’t tell me that has something to do with it.  If you had just killed him we would be more evenly matched.” 

“Glimmer died in the most horrific way possible.  I just… couldn’t.  Not when he was already down.”

Johanna calls my bluff. “It didn’t stop you from killing 9.  Everyone in these games dies in the most horrific way possible.”  She puts a hand on an axe.  “Remember?”

I shudder briefly.  “I don’t know when I lost my stomach for it,” I confess.

“Grow up.  You’ve got to kill, so kill.  We just need to last a little longer.” 

“Jo!” Finnick snaps at her.  “Shouldn’t you be watching the woods?”

Johanna glares daggers at him.  “Just making sure Kitty Kat here knows where her priorities lie.”

“She’s fine,” Finnick shoots back. “We’re almost there, so stay on your game.  We’re going to need food soon.”

I dig around in my pockets.  A small packet of dried fruit and another packet of jerky survived our recent tidal wave troubles and the swim in the river.  “Here,” I offer the food to the other three.  “I’ll have arrows soon enough and then we can fill up. We’ll need our strength in case anyone is guarding the Cornucopia.”

We tear into the food and down it with our remaining water.  “We’ll just have to hope that we can find a stream,” Finnick shrugs as he empties the bottle.

“I’m sure we will,” I say, gnawing on the jerky.  Unfortunately, the food does nothing but pique my hunger, as my stomach continues to rumble. 

Trudging onward, we reach our starting point within an hour and, thankfully, without incident. 

Crouching behind a fallen log and peering toward the curve in the shoreline, Finnick whispers, “Doesn’t it seem like this was a little too easy?” 

“What do you mean?” I whisper back.  “The only other people that pose a threat are probably at the other Cornucopia, right?”

“But we have no idea where that is,” Finnick mutters.  “Knives out – be ready for anything.”

Finnick gestures for Johanna and I to skirt around the log, while Beetee stays to watch the beach behind us. With Finnick walking the water line, he has the best view of the Cornucopia itself but makes himself a target; Johanna and I will be more protected from people on the beach, but susceptible to attack from the forest. 

As we stealthily approach the side of the gleaming metal hull, I have no idea what lies inside of it.  Our view obstructed by the bulk of the structure, we can only see Finnick, trident in hand. 

Suddenly, his eyes widen and he prepares to throw.  Johanna and I go on high alert, grab our weapons and fly around the edge of the Cornucopia. Beetee starts up behind the log and begins to run toward us.

“Stop!” I hear someone yell – a familiar voice.

“Peeta?” I call. 

“It’s me!  Don’t shoot, Katniss!”  Peeta tumbles out of the Cornucopia, hands up.  Finnick loosens his grip on the trident, and I place my knife back in my belt. 

“What are you doing, Peeta?” I ask wearily.  “We could have killed you!”

Johanna tests the blade of her axe, muttering, “We still could, you know.”

Finnick holds up a hand in warning, saying, “He could be useful.”

Peeta gives an unsure smile and says, “I ran like hell from the other tributes.  When I didn’t see you I figured that you had your own Cornucopia.”  Peeta looks at the knives at my belt and the bow slung over my shoulder.  “Where are your arrows?”

It takes every ounce of restraint not to roll my eyes at him.  Instead, I deadpan, “How do you think everyone else died?”

Finnick snorts and jokes, “You wish, Undersee!”

Peeta winces slightly at my new last name. 

“So what’s in there anyway?” Finnick continues, heading inside the Cornucopia.  His voice echoes, “Plenty of food left, but Katniss, you’re not going to like this.” 

“What?” I follow him into the darkness.

“Well, there aren’t any more arrows here,” Finnick gestures at the wall of weapons.  “But there are some other things that you may want.” 

I glance over the remaining arsenal.  The only remaining weapons are meant for someone who isn’t here: swords and spears.  My eyes begin to water at the memory of Cato.  Schooling my features, I say, “It doesn’t matter.  I’ll take the spears and a shortsword.  I can use them.”

“Are you sure? The sword is pretty heavy,” Finnick cautions.

“I’m sure.  I can handle the spears no problem, and the sword is light enough.”  I strap the sword over my back alongside the bow, not trusting myself not to cut off my leg, and switch to spears in my hands. 

Peeta appears at my side.  “Do you want me to carry those for you, Katniss?”

I give him a cool stare.  “And what good would that be?”

For once, Peeta doesn’t shrink back. “You can only throw one spear at a time, Katniss.  How many more weapons do you really think you can manage?”

I frown, then hand over all of the spears but one.  “Don’t lose these.”  I pause for a moment.  “Or bend them.  Any warp, and they won’t fly straight.”

“Yes, mother,” Peeta shares a smirk with Finnick.

“Unless you figure out how to use one of those without spearing yourself, I suggest you shut the hell up, kid,” Johanna interjects.   

“Anything else of use in there?” Beetee asks. 

We begin digging through the remaining weapons and supplies, gathering empty water bottles and discarded food packets, pocketknives and matches that had scattered.  We come away with a good number of items, but none of them are what I really want – arrows. 

“What now?” Peeta queries.  “I mean, we have some food, but how are we going to survive really?  I mean, there’s that group of careers out there.  And Katniss, I know that a few of them are really gunning for you.” 

“I know,” I say wearily.  “But short of hunting them down and having a confrontation, we can’t really do much about it. Plus, while I can manage these weapons for a while, I’m not as prepared.”

“If we got you some arrows, Katniss, it still doesn’t change anything. Unless we were to set you up in a tree and have you pick them off one-by-one, we are still at a disadvantage given their training and strength.  Going to the other Cornucopia opens us up to attack, and it might not pay off.  We can count on our mentors to send us arrows if you really need them. Rather than work with brute force, though, I think we should set a trap,” Beetee suggests. 

“What do you have in mind, Beetee?” Finnick asks.

Beetee fingers his spool of wire.  “We need to lure them into an area of the arena that we control.  Preferably one that we are familiar with, or that we know the most about.  I would like to use District 3, because I think I will be able to use any energy sources there with this wire.”

Johanna looks incredulous.  “What on earth could that wire possibly do?”

“I think you would be surprised.”  For the first time in a week, Beetee smiles at us.  “Very surprised.” 

 

 

 


	33. Chapter 33

_“now / To the final battle drew, disdaining flight, / Or faint retreat”_ ( _Paradise Lost_ VI.797-97).

The plan is clear to everyone but me.  As we stalk along the edge of the waterway toward the District 12 area – eschewing District 3 in favor of a District that Finnick assures us will put us on more advantageous ground for an attack – I can’t help but dwell upon the previous night.  What may very well have been my last night alive.

***

We had spent the night before in the relative safety of the Cornucopia and eating the remaining food, still unbothered by the career alliance that we assumed had formed.  The Capitol symbol revealed the District 9 victor that I killed.  Beetee was the only one who recognized him – “a good man, that Red,” he muttered – when the name appeared along with the face in the sky.  When met with querying looks, Beetee simply shrugged and said, “He was an older victor. I haven’t seen him in years.”  The evening passed quietly after that, as we rotated between watches and dozing.  Beetee and Finnick took the first watch together, murmuring plans and marking out time on the sand by the moonlight. 

“Tomorrow you’ll get some arrows,” Peeta whispered to me, staring up at the ceiling of the Cornucopia from his back.

“I hope so,” I said, hands tucked behind my head as I stretched out on the sand, easing the pulsing ache in my abdomen from hitting too many things in our rush down the river and stretching my hunger to something more manageable.  “The sword and spear aren’t really my weapons.”

“They’re _his_ , aren’t they?  They were meant for him, right?”

I feel a twinge inside me – only partially from hunger.  “No, they weren’t meant for him,” I said quietly.

“What?  But they’re the weapons he used last year.”

“I know,” I said.  “They were meant for me.  To remind me of him.  And how useless I am here.”

“You’re not useless!” Peeta insisted.  “You got past Onyx and killed that District 9 victor.  If anything, I’m the useless one,” he added forlornly.

I turned off my back and looked toward Peeta.  “Onyx is still alive.  The District 9 victor didn’t pose a threat to us.  And here we are, essentially open to attack.  Hungry.  Cold.  It’s not you that’s useless.  It’s me.  I can’t use the weapons that we have to hunt.  And what’s supposed to happen once the careers are dead?  We turn on each other?  Only one of us gets out of here alive.”

Peeta turned his head and met my eyes.  “Why didn’t you kill Onyx?” he asked softly.

I looked over at Johanna’s straight back, which tensed as Peeta asked the question.  She sat cross-legged at the entrance of the Cornucopia, and wasn’t doing a very good job of pretending not to listen.

Sighing, I said, “Honestly? I don’t know.  I knocked him out.  I would have killed him easily enough a year ago.  I know Cato would have.”

“So? What was the problem?” Peeta leaned on his arm. 

“Like I said, I don’t know.  What was I supposed to do?  Slit his throat while he was knocked out?”

Johanna broke all pretense of not paying attention and turned to us. “Yeah, brainless.  That’s _exactly_ what you were supposed to do.  And because he’s still alive, he can still kill one of us. You just left one player in the game that probably gave Finnick a concussion and managed to jump you without even really trying.  Of all people _not_ to kill, you chose a bad one.” Haughtily, she turned back to face the sea with a harrumph.

I don’t answer.  Hunger had nothing to do with the ache inside me deepening.

“Katniss?” Peeta whispered. 

Again, I remained silent in the darkness.

“I don’t blame you for not killing Onyx.  You’re not like him, you know.” Peeta stated matter-of-factly, and then rolled over.

  _Which “him”?_   _Onyx or…_

***

“Yes, I understand the strategic advantage of District 12 for _me_ , but what is the point of going there for the rest of you?” I insist, keeping my eyes on the piece of District 7 forest to our right.  “And aren’t we awfully exposed out here?”  I shudder at how easy it would be to follow us – between our footsteps and the long sight lines, we can be spotted by the careers more easily than I’d like.

“It’s sure to draw Enobaria and the others,” Finnick explains.  “They know you’ll go for the familiar.”

“But…” I interject.

“Oh just shut up, Katniss,” Johanna shoots.  “You’re going to have to trust us.”

I narrow my eyes at her.  Trust her?  Any of them?  There is only one person I can trust, and he isn’t here.  I bite my tongue and watch the heavily forested wedge fade into a landscape of concrete. It's not like I had many other options.

Finnick holds up a hand to stop us.  “Hold on, guys.  District 8.  I’ll bet you Cecelia is here somewhere.”  We push ourselves closer to the forest line.

“So what, Finnick?” Johanna demands as she leans against a tree.  “It’s not like she can help us that much.”

“No, but she can certainly hurt us, especially since she knows this place,” Finnick responds.  “I had thought it would be easiest to slip through this part of the island up to the interior of District 12. We can also get a better look at the mountain – or whatever it is – at the center of the island.”

Peeta looks skeptical. “What was the point of going around the island this way, then?  Couldn’t we have just gone through the center to begin with?” 

Beetee cocks his head to the side. “With certain tributes dead, it makes it more likely that we will be able to cross their home territory without issue.  Johanna is here, but without Katniss’s arrows we would probably struggle to get through District 7 with the forest cats.  I don’t know if they are on a schedule like District 5 was with the turbines.  District 8 is the closest District to cross, and also the least likely to have animal-related traps.”

“Well reasoned,” Peeta answered. “Let’s go.”

Rounding into the District 8 area, there are no forcefields or barriers to stop us.  I ease the sword out of its sheath on my back.  Finnick looks at me and shakes his head.  “Long range weapons, Katniss.”  I raise my eyebrows at him.  “Fine.  Your choice.”

My memories of District 8 from the Victory Tour are still fresh.  A crumbling nightmare of tenement housing and smoky factories, District 8 is one of the poorest in Panem.  The battered housing and endless maze of cement streets are a bland gray. Cecelia – one of the few victors from 8 – had managed to save her children from a life of factory slavery, where a person could start working far earlier than in District 12.  A citizen had to be eighteen to enter the coal mines in 12, but in 8 – like in 11, I discovered from Rue the previous year – children could start working at simple but dangerous jobs at the age of twelve: the same year they could be reaped. In some ways, that was a real luxury.  Recalling the months after my father’s death, I know the importance of making any income at all rather than using tesserae and wish that I had the option of working.  The mines are the only option in District 12 – and a deadly option, at that.  At least if you are twelve in District 8 you could bring home a wage, even a small one. What it helps buy is run down and pock-marked housing, grimy streets littered with trash, and whatever small food provisions are imported from neighboring Districts.

This version of District 8 is nothing of the kind. Fresh, shiny windows gleam in the morning sunlight and tree-lined avenues lead to a shell of a textile plant.  A light breeze wafts the white steam from the stacks of the plant into an innocent cloud before dissolving in the air.

“They’ve got to be joking,” Johanna says sardonically. 

“What?” Peeta asks.  “What’s wrong?”

Finnick snorted. “I’m willing to bet that most people in District 8 would kill to live here.”

I raise an eyebrow at Finnick's choice of words. “Indeed,” I say acerbically.  “And it’s entirely possible that one such resident is here, waiting to kill us.  Let’s get a move on.”

Peeta continues to ask questions as we hug the sides of buildings and try to move covertly through District 8’s wedge and get closer to the center of the island. “What’s wrong with this place?  It doesn’t look that bad.”

We victors exchange long glances.  I debate whether to tell him that the scene is a mockery of what District 8 is really like.  How much treason can be uttered on live television before they just blow us away?  Plutarch Heavensbee might be in the control room, but we all know who is really in control. 

“It’s just not a whole lot like the real District 8,” I say finally. 

“Ah,” Peeta says knowingly.  “Johanna, was the District 7 wedge quite a bit like your home?”

Johanna laughs.  “The forest cats certainly are.  I wonder what they’ll use to kill us here?” 

Finnick laughs along with her.  “Perhaps some really ugly clothes? Maybe lace that’s itchy?”

I can’t help but chuckle.  “They seem to have discovered our weaknesses.”

Suddenly, we hear the cannon boom.  We all stop and share a look with one another.  “Cecelia,” Beetee says quietly.  “It must be.  She didn’t stand a chance.  And apparently she wasn’t here.”

“That we know of,” Finnick answers.  “It might have been the victor from 10.  We need to keep moving.  Enough joking around.”

Picking up the pace, we stick to the side of the main avenue to head directly toward the plant.  “That _is_ just a shell, right?” I ask, looking at the smoke stack and its seemingly innocuous steam. 

“It’s been too quiet lately,” Beetee says.  “I’ll bet not.  Cecelia’s death won’t hold off the gamemakers for long.”

“At least we’re coming up on the forty-eight hour mark, right?  You ought to be able to get your arrows soon, Katniss, and any other sponsor gifts,” Peeta reminds me. 

“I don’t think it will do much good against this place,” I warn.  “We need to hurry.”   
  
No sooner are the words out of my mouth than the smoke stack begins spewing a green cloud of gas, thick and noxious, moving against the wind toward us. 

“Shit!” Finnick exclaims. “Run!  Left!” 

We spring diagonally, even as the gas cloud billows and grows.  “Go! Go!” Peeta screams from behind me.  “It’s catching up!”

“Quit looking back, you idiot!” I call.  The cityscape begins to devolve as we scramble through neighborhoods and back alleys, with chunks of buildings, broken benches, and holes in sidewalks obstructing our movements.  The gas slowly catches up to us, and I hear Peeta shriek in pain as it begins to burn through his skin and lungs.  “Keep running!  Come on, Peeta!”

Beetee is being dragged along by Johanna, who is increasingly winded by the exertion.  Finnick leads the way.  “Up ahead!” Finnick yells.  “Fields!  We’re almost there!” 

I reach back to grab Peeta’s arm to pull him out of the insidious green fog.  His sleeve dissolves at my touch, and my fingers burn and blister in the gas.  We fly forward, hurdling the last of the rubble of District 8.  Peeta and I stumble into the grassy field, heaving and coughing.  The gas stops behind us at an invisible barrier. 

Another forcefield?  Crawling over to the barrier, I reach out my hand. 

“Don’t,” Beetee cautions, coughing spastically. “It could be more than just a barrier.  Some of those electrocute you.”

I jerk my hand back instinctively. 

“Only one way to find out,” Peeta says, then throws a handful of grass directly at the invisible wall.  With a zap, the grass explodes in a puff of smoke – only a sprinkling of charred ashes remain. 

“I’m guessing that was eight o’clock,” Johanna pants from her back. 

“Yes,” Beetee says thoughtfully.  “Which means we likely have about thirty minutes before this place is activated.”


	34. Chapter 34

_“See how he lies at random, carelessly diffus'd, / With languish't head unpropt, / As one past hope, abandon'd”_ ( _Samson Agonistes_ 118-20).

The waist-high grasses make me shudder.  Images of Thresh and Cato fighting to the death flash through my mind as we wade through the seemingly endless field.  I keep expecting to be attacked – waiting to be killed, either by animal or tribute, sneaking through the deep fields behind us.  

Peeta’s injuries seem superficial – had he remained in the gasses from the District 8 area any longer he would certainly have suffocated.  My own hand is slightly blistered, but nothing that I can’t manage, pain-wise. 

The stalks of wheat are sharp and prickly, sticking to our clothes and jabbing in our arms.  I can tell that Peeta is struggling; he holds his arms above the stalks and grimaces in pain. If his blistered skin was as sensitive as mine, being poked constantly with the prickly wheat tassels will only exacerbate his discomfort. He tries to contain his coughs, but the choking sound of his throat and lungs erupts occasionally only to be smothered in his tattered sleeves.  Peeta looks at me apologetically each time.

I finally have some time to muse about our situation.  Arrows ought to arrive shortly – a costly and luxurious present that I am sure will take priority over things like medicine for Peeta, which he will never get. Arrows are all the more generous given that I already have weapons that I am capable of using.  Peeta seems grateful to be a part of the group.  Given the rebellious comments he made at the interviews, I’m surprised that he hasn’t been blown up or killed by a gamemaker yet.  Cato will be watching and waiting for one of us to end it.  After all, Peeta seems to be an easy kill, especially now that he’s injured.

Given that he is here rather than Prim, I know that it can’t be me who kills him.  Johanna seems like she wouldn’t have a problem with it – I’m certain she’d land an axe in me given the chance.  Finnick – for all his charm and good looks – is equally deadly.  Beetee is the question in all this.  I can’t help but wonder what the wire is for. He’s insisted it’s integral to our plan, but I am still unsure how such a thin wire could do anything.

Johanna grumbles from behind at Finnick. “Are you sure that we’re headed in the right direction? I can’t even see the other side of this place.”

Finnick hushes her quickly.  “Jo, we are completely exposed here.  We didn’t plan on spending much time in this wedge, and I don’t want to draw any more attention to ourselves.  I’m sure there’s something here for us, and we’re close to the time that the area will be triggered if it hasn’t been already.  So please – for once – shut. Up.” 

Johanna makes a face at Finnick’s back along with a rude gesture once he turns around.  Beetee chuckles quietly. 

A silver parachute drifts down out of the sky. 

“Dammit!” Finnick exclaims.  “Anyone who didn’t know we are here certainly will know now!”

We rush to the package, which is far too small to contain arrows.  Peeta pops open the container.  “Bread?”  Bread, while certainly needed, isn’t what I want.

“Yes,” Beetee says.  “It looks like there are twenty four rolls.”

“They’re from my home,” Finnick says. “District 4 bread always has seaweed – that’s why it’s green.”  Johanna, Beetee, and I look to Finnick; Peeta’s eyes remain fixed hungrily on the bread.  Sharing doesn’t happen naturally in the arena.  “Here,” Finnick hands the rolls to us, surprising me. “We can each have four rolls, and that will leave four for…”  Finnick trails off, but it’s clear enough what he means – whoever survives can have the remaining four rolls. “Hopefully we’ll get more later,” he concludes.

I cram a roll in my mouth and immediately regret doing so.  The rolls are dry – not stale, per se – but absorb all of the water left in my mouth.  I can tell that we will need to refill the water bottles soon.  Swallowing slowly, I say, “We should keep moving.” 

“Agreed,” Beetee nods his head.

We continue walking diagonally across the grasses, moving at once toward the center and the District 10 wedge.  The wheat eventually fades into barley, with its long tassels looking soft and welcoming after the sharp wheat husks.  Seeing the cows on the much shorter grasslands that marked a shift to District 10 on the other side of the barley, I venture into the brown waves first, feel a sting on the back of my hand, and immediately jump back into the wheat. 

“What is it?”  Peeta demands.  I hold up my hand, which has a deep cut that is bleeding badly and is showing no signs of stopping. Ripping a chunk of fabric from my jacket, I wrap my hand to staunch the flow.  Looking down at my pants and jacket, I see dozens of tiny cuts.

Finnick carefully examines the barley tassels that once looked so soft.  “Holy shit,” he mutters. “We could have just walked right into that.”

Johanna scrutinizes the barley.  “These tassels aren’t actually made of barley,” she concludes.  “They’re thin pieces of steel.”

“Death by a thousand cuts,” Beetee murmurs. We all recoil from the barley at his words.  “If we had run through that, we would have bled to death – slowly – over the next day.  How does your hand feel, Katniss?”

“It was already blistered from the damn gas, so really about the same,” I respond. 

“Time to revise our plans,” Finnick says.  “We need to head directly to the center of the island and head to District 12 that way.”

“Why do we have to go to District 12 still?” Peeta asks.  “Wouldn’t it be just as easy to go to any of the other areas?”

“Sorry, kid,” Finnick responds.  “You’re just going to have to trust us on this.  12 is where we want to be.  There will be more food resources there for us to hunt, and Beetee has a plan for using his wire.”

“Can we actually hear what this plan is, then?” I interject.  “Because I don’t really get what the point is, and I don’t want to waste time going somewhere that isn’t necessary.”

Beetee looks questioningly at Finnick, who gives a brief nod then looks out to scan the horizon.  “Well,” Beetee begins, “this wire is essentially a fuse.  I knew it would be useful when we got here, but it wasn’t until Katniss mentioned the flammable nature of District 12 that I thought we could use it.”  Beetee unrolls a bit of the filament to show how thin the wire is.  “This fuse is practically invisible, and if we connect it to a central source, we ought to be able to blow a specific area with the careers in it without them knowing the wire is there at all.”

“How do you know this little wire can do all that?” Johanna asks.

“Because I designed it,” Beetee says simply. 

Johanna looks impressed.  “Okay, then.  Off to 12 we go.”

“We still have the problem of the barley, though,” Finnick points out.  “It’s a huge obstacle, and we don’t know how far toward the center the field goes.  We can’t turn back, and we don’t have much time to get there.” Finnick nods at the cows on the other side of the field. “And who knows what those cows will do to us in about an hour or so.”

I’m already uncomfortable being in this field – being so exposed.  The fight between Cato and Thresh rushes back to me, and I keep imagining the scythe flashing in the moonlight.  _The scythe_.  A plan formulates. “I have an idea,” I say.  “We need to get through this barley – and quickly, right?”

Johanna gestures impatiently to get on with it. 

I ease the sword out of its sheath.  “We mow it,” I say.  I take a wide swing at the barley heads, chopping them out of the way. 

The other four share a look.  “Let’s go,” Finnick says finally.

I take the lead with the shortsword, with the others staying back and away from the flying steel shards.  Cutting a path through the barley, I take care to keep a good distance between the hilt of the sword and the stalks.  Sending up a silent prayer to Cato for all of the strength training we did over the past few months, I keep moving forward until my arms are spastically twitching with the effort. 

“I can take over,” Peeta offers when I stop to rest. 

“I don’t need your help,” I say shortly.

Peeta surveys my face thoughtfully.  “You know, you don’t have to be strong all the time like that.  You can share the load.”

I squat down and stick the blade point first in the ground, then rest my hands on the hilt. Looking up at him skeptically and breathing heavily, I ask, “You do remember where we are, don’t you?”

“Of course I do,” Peeta says. 

“Then you’ll know that it would be an incredibly stupid thing for me to hand my only weapon over to you.”  I stand and stretch my back.  “Back to it, then.  If you want to help, keep scanning the horizon.”

“You don’t get it, do you?” Peeta insists.  “It’s not about the weapons.  I want to help however I can.  You put up a good front, but you’re tired and scared.”

I can’t help but throw back my head and laugh.  “You really don’t know me at all!” 

Johanna and Finnick turn from their conversation behind us and stare.  Beetee doesn’t bother – he watches the sky and tracks the sun.

Peeta shoots them a glare, then says to me much more quietly.  “I’ve watched you for years, Katniss.  I know you.” He looks me up and down. “Probably better than you know yourself.”

I narrow my eyes and flex my fingers on the hilt of the sword.  “Oh really?  You know me so well?”  Lifting the sword to test its balance, I hold it out toward Peeta, hilt first.  Before he can take it from me, I fling the blade in the air.  The steel winks in the sun as it spins, twisting and flashing as it soars.  Startled, Peeta steps back and watches.  The sword begins to fall, still arcing gracefully through the air, until I clap my hands together in front of his face, inches from his nose, catching the blade neatly between my palms.  “Then you will know that I will do whatever it takes to leave this place alive.”

“That’s some trick, Undersee,” Johanna calls.  “Now get back to cutting unless you want one of us to take a turn.” 

“Fine then,” I shoot back, elbowing past Peeta, who stands dumbstruck still.  “You’re up, Mason.  Watch the blade, though.  It’s a hair heavy on the back end.”

She stuffs her axes in her belt and takes the sword from me.  With a wicked grin, she says, “I doubt it will make that much of a difference to me.  Grass doesn’t need a neat death.”

Within the next twenty minutes, we move through the barley field and into the District 10 wedge.  After a nervous minute of surveying the cows, we decide they’re behaving too innocuously to be regular cows – “They’ve got to be mutts,” Beetee concludes – and head even further inward toward the center of the island.  It’s far quicker to cross the District pieces at their centers, and we make rapid progress, skirting the idly grazing livestock and zipping over the various scrubby bushes and rocks.  We stop to refill the water bottles in the small streams that crisscross the landscape. 

We are taking time for a brief meal of our remaining rolls when we hear the boom of another cannon.  “I wish I could say that was for that shithead Onyx, but I doubt it," I mutter.

“Cecelia,” Finnick murmurs. 

Nodding once, Beetee bows his head.  “Her poor children.” 

Over the years, most of the victors had gone without having children.  Someone like Finnick would likely have been married and had children several years ago had it not been for his popularity in the Capitol.  Johanna enjoyed shocking men more than being with them, it seemed, judging from her behavior in the Training Center.  I never heard a whisper of her settling down. Haymitch was too much of a drunk to ever attract a wife, even in spite of his being a victor and having more creature comforts than most of the District 12 elite. Beetee had never married.  Cecelia’s poor children would likely be reaped without their mother to provide for them – to protect them. 

It’s precisely why I never wanted to have children.  Resting a hand on my midsection, I stare up at the sky, willing a silver parachute to float down to us.  _Please, Cato.  I need arrows_.  Only the fake clouds scud along the blue screen in response.

Frustrated, I slam the butt of my spear into the ground.  “Let’s go.  The sooner we get to 12, the sooner the careers will find us, and the sooner this is over,” I say.


	35. Chapter 35

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And after MANY delays, here is a new update! Thank you all for your patience!

“ _O dark, dark, dark, amid the blaze of noon, / Irrecoverably dark, total eclipse / Without all hope of day!_ ” Samson Agonistes, 80-82

Our trek inland begins to take a steep uphill turn as we near the base of the mountain.  Johanna pulls an axe out in anticipation of the heavy forest we can see ahead.  Having threshed our way through substantial wedges of what we think are Districts 10 and 11, we are rapidly nearing what I know is the highly combustible coal sludge and gray-coated trees of District 12.  We’ve eaten the majority of our food and water, and we are all ready for some rest.  

The silence of our travels is overwhelming.  At times, I feel ask though the careers are laying in wait for us – the smallest rustle of leaves seems to be a sign of their presence.  When I’m not cutting through the various needled crops, I’m watching our track grow behind us.  We don’t dare speak, for fear of drawing much attention to ourselves. Beetee is lost in thought; Peeta smothers his coughs.  While we outnumber the careers, we need a safe place to stay overnight, and we are certainly too tired to fight.

Alternately, my frustration with Cato grows.  When is he going to send me my arrows?  Or food?  What was all that work with the sponsors for, anyway? A bitter taste grows in my mouth as I slowly dehydrate, but my mouth tightens more over the thought of the cigarette burns and bruises on Cato’s skin… and the futility of his efforts.  

We stop for a final rest, draining the last of the water and gnawing at the last of the food we have left.  Food that lasted me days last year doesn’t last nearly as long feeding five.  We wet our fingers with our tongues and dot the last crumbs off our pants. The darkening trees loom, swaying slightly in the breeze.

Finnick pulls me aside before we step into the forest.  “Is there anything else we should know about before we go in there?” he asks quietly. 

A corner of my mouth ticks up in an ironic sort of amusement.  “Everything I think could be an asset here is probably a trap,” I murmur.  “What I could pick from the bushes is probably poisoned, and I don’t want to try anything to guess.” 

I glance up at the thick branches.  “More of a problem,” I muse, “is the trees.  In 12, they’re coated in coal dust and completely flammable, so even though I took shelter in one last year, I certainly wouldn’t do that this year.  The tiniest spark could send this place up in flames.” 

“Anything we _can_ use?” Finnick asks, the exasperation produced by a long day creeping into his voice.

“I have an idea,” I say, “but you’re not going to like it.”

*** 

I circumvent the tidy little town that’s set up in a forest clearing. It’s too quiet.  12 might have been awful, but it was a busy little place with plenty of movement.  After our brush with the poison-producing plant, I’m guessing it’s either full of careers or something equally deadly.

Instead, I follow the murky stream full of coal sludge uphill.  Peeta’s mouth is drawn into a line as he fights the pain of his blistered skin, and he gives me a knowing look – he certainly knows where we are headed.  Joanna has long since silenced her sarcastic grumbling, focusing on not sliding through the slick gravel that forms the base of District 12’s gaping coal mines.  Beetee does his best, but judging by the darkening sweat line blooming along the V of his shirt, we will need water soon.

The mines dot the inside of a yawning curve in the base of the arena’s center mountain.  It gives us an excellent panorama down the hill, as well as an eagle-eye view of substantial movements in the forest.  I can see a long gap in the trees that might indicate a small river or creek, and any approaching enemy would rattle enough gravel to wake even the deepest of sleepers. 

But first, we need to make sure that the mine is empty.  With sword drawn, pommel gripped in both hands, I approach the mouth of the mine.  Finnick hoists his trident, and Joanna eases her second axe out of her belt.  Beetee stays still, grasping his wire with a knife in hand.  Peeta holds my discarded spear, but it trembles in his hands as we wait for movement. 

Long seconds pass, until Joanna gets frustrated.  With an audible rumble of her stomach, she bends over, grabs a rock, and throws it into the mouth of the mine.  It echoes with every bounce as it knocks down the tracks, clattering until it came to rest out of sight. 

“See?  It’s fine!” she says.  We all breathe a sigh of relief.

Within seconds, we hear squeaks and flutters of wings.  The shared look of panic is enough for us.  Finnick, Beetee, Peeta, and I dive for cover as the bats attack Johanna’s face and neck.  She squeals as they flap at her, loud enough to draw every wild being – careers included – in the forest. 

“Jo!” Finnick yells, scrambling up and tackling her to the ground.  The bats flee into the growing dusk.

“Holy fuck,” she breathes with a chuckle, panting and sprawled out on her back.  “I screamed like a little girl.”

Peeta laughs, and Finnick shoots him a nasty look.  Beetee shakes his head.

“We’ve just given away our position to the entire area,” Finnick snaps.  “And who knows what sort of venom those bats have in their claws.”  Johanna refuses his proffered hand and pulls herself into a squat to brush off her pants. 

“There’s nothing we can do about it now,” Beetee says thoughtfully.  “It’s getting dark, and we need to find a place to stay until we get the plan going.  This mine will do about as well as anything else.”

A faint beeping noise comes from overhead, and we stare up in wonder.  A bright silver parachute swings down out of the sky and lands gently at my feet.  “If the bats didn’t give us away, that certainly will,” I say, cracking open the container. 

The gleaming synthetic fletching softens the clicking tumble of the arrows in the tube.  A dozen of them slide into my hand, and I ache to shoot one.  The tips are sharpened to a wicked point, and the barbs’ serrated teeth will prevent the arrows from being easily removed from wounds that don’t immediately kill. No bullet-point caps here – it’s all medieval. The sword always feels like it’s someone else’s arm has been grafted onto my shoulder; arrows are my armor.  

Looking up at the sky, I send a silent thank you to Cato.  He finally came through, and these must have cost him everything he had.  Being in the control room, he must know what’s coming soon. The final showdown with the careers, the impending split-up of our little group, and the mayhem of Joanna, Finnick, and I killing each other off.  Peeta, well… Peeta will likely be caught up in the crossfire.

Tossing the sword to Peeta, who awkwardly bobbles it before getting a good grip, I draw an arrow and step toward the cave.  “Peeta, Beetee – you guys watch the forest,” Finnick says as he balances the trident at its fulcrum, preparing to follow.  Axes in hand, Johanna comes at the rear.

Beetee and Peeta take up positions inside the mouth of the enormous mine, staying in the shadows. “Don’t go too far,” Peeta says. 

Johanna rolls her eyes, “We’ll go as far as we need to, kid.”

Moving out of the fast-fading light, the three of us tread lightly down the tunnel, crouching against the walls.  Water dripping echoes in the space, but all else is stillness and quiet. The passageway narrows quickly, herding us toward an empty elevator shaft that I can only hope is a fake.  Quick memories flash through my mind – a burst of flame, clouds of smoke, the burned bodies dragged out of the mine, the women and children left alone to starve… It’s all I can do to repress a shudder.

“Katniss,” Finnick whispers. “Any ideas what could come out of that thing?” He nods toward the elevator shaft.

I grimace, flex my fingers around my bow’s grip, then murmur, “Anything from an explosion to killer mutts – let your imagination do the work, because you know the gamemakers have.”

“Right,” Finnick says. He straightens up and lowers his trident, back cracking as he stretches.  “But nothing like that is here now.  Should we head back?”

“ _Katnisssssss…_ ” – a voice whispers up from the shaft, barely audible even in the silence.  My palms break out in a sweat.

“What the fuck was that?” Johanna demands.

“I don’t know,” I manage to say, my voice shaky at the familiar voice.  “Did it sound like…”

“Your name?” Johanna fills in.

“Yes,” Finnick says.  “That’s what I heard too.”

“But it sounded like,” I hesitate.  “It sounded like a… a man.”  Who that man is – that’s what I can’t say.  That voice, though.  It resonates with a vague memory, but I can’t put a face to it.

“You don’t seriously think that they would put a person down there, do you?” I ask.

“No,” Finnick immediately insists. “No extra players.”

The voice hisses again – “ _Katnissssss, heeeeeelp…_ ”

Johanna, Finnick, and I share a long look – the worry on Finnick’s face is visible even in the dim light.  Unable to stop myself, I inch toward the elevator shaft.  Warm air breathes from the hole like it is coming from hell itself, carrying another whisper of “ _Katnissss_.”  At my next step, I reach the edge of the pit, and suddenly the cables of the elevator lurch into action.  Flailing at the shock, I swing forward.

“Holy shit!” Johanna grabs my jacket and drags me away from the shaft.  “Let’s get out of here!”

“But someone is down there!” I exclaim as she pulls me back.  “It sounded like…”

“No!” Finnick says with finality.  “It’s no one you know.  Let’s go.  I want to be as far away from that shaft as possible. Now!”

We sprint down the mineshaft toward the exit of the cave.  Peeta leans against a wall, fiddling with the pommel of the sword. At the sound of our pounding feet, he springs up.  “What?” he asks. “What is it?” 

Beetee peers around the corner of the cave at us and pushes his glasses up with his finger, the wire cable still tucked under his arm.  “Do we need to go?”

The three of us stagger to a halt.  I throw a glance over my shoulder to see if anything has followed us.  “I’m not sure,” I say.  “There was a voice.”

“Oh,” Beetee says, nonchalant.  “But no mutts?  No explosions? No leaking gas?”

“Quit giving them ideas, Beetee,” Finnick responds.  “Save the fire for later tonight.  Let’s finalize our plan and get ready for the careers.”

Stepping into the dimming twilight, I survey the trees that cluster around the creeks.  The whole place was eerily like home, but not.  An overwhelming urge to see Prim swells within me.  I think about her being here – trying to survive, having to fight.  Casting a glance back at Peeta, still fiddling with his sword and figuring out the best grip, I feel grateful that he was willing to make the sacrifice for her.  The world needs more innocence, and I have done the best I can to shield her from the hard truths of existence in Panem since my father died. 

My father.  _The voice_.  “Pigs,” I mutter vehemently and spit on the ground.  Using the last memory of my dead father’s voice to spite me in the arena – disgusting.  I clench my jaw and resist the urge to fire an arrow straight into the sky, right into Snow’s all-knowing, all-seeing cameras.  I get a darkly fierce sense of joy thinking of Snow’s head being knocked back, pinned against the wall with a quivering arrow through his eye socket.

“No,” I murmur to myself.  “That would be too easy.”

***

The plan is supposedly simple.  Draw the careers into District 12 territory – specifically the area that has a great deal of coal dust – and use Beetee’s wire as a fuse stemming from the force field to burn the whole place to the ground.  Ruthless, fairly efficient, and the best way to separate them out from one another.  Of course, the smell of charred flesh would only become a backdrop to the slaughter than occurs afterward – the fight between me, Johanna, Finnick, Beetee, and Peeta. 

Johanna and I are supposed to run the fuse through the entirety of the burn area and then up to the closest force field, about a kilometer away from the burn site we are planning.  Beetee will signal when we are supposed to toss the spool against the force field with – as I discovered when he demonstrated – his ear-piercingly loud whistle. Peeta and Finnick will dig a hole to start the biggest fire they can in order to draw the careers to our location.  The hole will prevent the entire area from catching on fire until the careers get to the right spot.  The wire should provide enough sparks to light the entire place up beyond our few meager matches, and – if we’re lucky – electrocute a few careers in the process. 

I remain skeptical.  While anything is worth trying at this point, we could burn ourselves alive alongside the careers.  The tiny filament that is meant to set the world ablaze seems a remarkably fragile thing for such a task. To rely upon something so fragile goes against my nature – after a lifetime of working alongside Cato and understanding his strength, I don’t know anything else.  It’s during these moments that I can’t help but brush my hand along my abdomen, which is now decidedly flat after days of minimal rations.  Fragility is relative, I suppose.

The twilight has faded into a deep dusk.  Knowing the careers’ penchant for night hunting, Beetee figures this is the best time to lure them in.  Johanna hands me the spool and confirms our orders with Beetee. “So, we’re supposed to run this along the base of trees all through this area where there’s coal dust, then walk it out to the force field.  When we hear the whistle, we throw the spool into the force field, and that will zap the careers and burn them up.”

Beetee pushes his glasses up his nose. “In essence, yes.”

“We’ll wait until the Capitol’s theme starts up, then start moving,” I follow up.  “Better cover with noise.”

“Exactly,” Beetee says.  “Katniss, you know what coal dust looks like, so you carry and concentrate on those areas while Johanna acts as guard.”

“That’s hardly fair,” I begin to protest.

“It will be quieter if you can move silently without having to give direction,” Beetee says.  “And you shouldn’t go alone – you’ll be completely defenseless without someone to guard you.” 

“Fine,” I grump as I swing my bow over my shoulder. 

“Don’t worry, kitty cat,” Johanna smirks.  “I’ll watch your back.”

“Yeah,” I grumble quietly. “Watch my back take a knife…”

Peeta steps between us and says, “Are you sure you don’t want me to go with you?  I can guard.”

“No way, kid,” Johanna says. “I saw you at training.  You are good at digging holes, no good at aiming for anything.”  With a flash of her axes, she jerks her head toward the direction we need to head.  “Let’s get in position.”

"Sorry, Peeta," I apologize. In many ways, I would really prefer Peeta - I know he won't kill me the first chance he gets.  "But I'll see you soon, okay?"  

Peeta hesitates, then jerks forward, landing a hard kiss on my mouth.  We don't precisely meet up, as his chin bangs into mine.  Shocked, I don't move away immediately - it takes me a moment to even register what he's doing, and it's over before I know what's happened.  "No, I'm sorry," he says.  "I had to do that at least once.  See you soon, Katniss."

Finnick's eyebrows are at his hairline.  "Kid, you've got some serious balls," he remarks.  "But you realize you're a dead man, right?"  Peeta smiles sadly and nods.

Stunned, I blindly turn toward Johanna and adjust the spool in my hands as I head toward the edge of the forest where the coal dust begins to create smears on the stones, and wait for the Capital’s music to begin. 


	36. Chapter 36

_“At once both to destroy and be destroy'd; / The Edifice where all were met to see him / Upon thir heads and on his own he pull'd.”_ (Samson Agonistes, 1587-89)

 

The Capital’s anthem blares out as Johanna and I stalk through the forest.  The nearly invisible filament trails behind me; Johanna parallels me to the left. The hair on my neck prickles in anticipation – I can feel the electricity in the air.  The musty smell of coal mingles with the pine trees… It hearkens to the faint odors of the restrooms on the Capitol trains.

The brush rustles against my legs and fights the wire as it settles to the ground.  The Capitol’s eye for detail leaves nothing wanting – the damn leaves are just as loud here as they are in District 12.  I toe-heel to soften my steps, winding through the rabbit paths made for rabbits that don’t exist, slowly unwinding the wire as Johanna patrols the dusky forest. With my bow and arrows slung over my shoulder, I feel vulnerable, unable to peer out at the world with a hunter’s eye.

A crash in the bushes far to the right paralyzes both of us.  Johanna turns her head infinitesimally toward the noise, clearly afraid that sudden or overt movement will give away our position… as though us standing there – unarmed, no less – would be any less of a giveaway. She lifts her axe slowly, preparing to hurl it toward the noise, when a bird bursts from the brush and takes flight toward the Capitol seal in the sky.

I exhale sharply, releasing the breath that I didn’t even realize I was holding. It has been only seconds, but it felt like ages. Still too soon to feel anything like relief, the oxygen hits my lungs and reminds me that I’m still alive... for now. Closing my eyes for a brief moment, I relish the feeling of existence, of life. I lift my eyes to the sky as a jolt of thought flashes through me: _Cato, I’m coming home for you_.  Making eye contact with Johanna, I jerk my head toward the barrier, and we resume our stealthy march forward. The Capitol anthem is rapidly drawing to a close, and we need to hurry.

The silent bulk of the faux town looms in the darkness; thankfully, it’s out of our path to the force field. I can see Johanna eye it warily, and I shy instinctively away from it. Turning our backs to the town, we continue our silent stalk downhill.  An echoing hush settles as the Capitol anthem ends in a blare of trumpets.

The wire begins to resist a bit, tugging like a fish on a line.  I give it an irritable jerk, yanking the filament into the path I want and trying to free it from whatever has snagged it.  The wire pulls back, resisting my jerks.  I turn around, frowning, to give a final yank when the spool is suddenly wrench from my hands.  “Jo?” I barely get out before I am tackled around the midsection by a huge, dark force, bow flying off my shoulder and arrows clattering off into the deep twilight.

My head wangs against the ground, and my vision explodes into stars and then goes dark.  A rough hand grabs my throat and squeezes – I flail at the hands with my nails in panic.  Scrabbling and fighting for breath, I know I have seconds before either my windpipe collapses or I pass out – neither is an option.  Drawing on every ounce of training, every last shard of self-control, I force myself to go limp and fling out my arms onto the rocky ground.  The hands loosen momentarily, giving me a fraction of a second to draw breath, open my eyes, and then swing a fist-sized rock to connect with the temple of my attacker.  It makes a satisfying crack, and I am finally freed by landing a follow-up elbow to the ear.  I scramble to my feet, then square a blow to my attacker – _Mason!_ I knew he was deadly! – by kicking him squarely in the kidneys. The kick hardly makes a difference, as the District 2 tribute groans, but only shakes his head and clamors to his feet.

Looming a good foot over me, Mason quietly assesses me as I pant for breath. The still moment is shattered – “Katniss?” I hear Johanna cry out.  My attention is stolen for a second, and that’s all it takes for Mason to lunge for me again. I recognize the pattern – a front snap punch meant to go for the head – but he’s just a bit too far away for it to work well… it still will be a strong enough strike even without having the force of his full weight.  Bracing my forearm to quickly push his right hand away, I bob underneath the coming impact of his second attack, leaving him swinging at air as I duck to grab his weaker punch.  What I try had only ever worked once before with Cato – and he had been furious and injured for weeks afterward – but Mason had hopefully never seen this response to a front snap punch. I snag Mason’s right wrist, even though it was clearly his stronger arm, and launch myself forward and past his right shoulder, wrenching his right arm out of the socket in a fast dislocation. Mason’s right arm goes limp as I release his hand, then he drops like a stone as I jab him again in his bruised kidneys and sweep out his feet from underneath him.  He gasps as he crashes to the ground, but then rolls away – not even bothering to protect his dislocated shoulder.

Mason knows, it occurs to me, that the pain of a moment does not matter in the long run.  Survival does.  For a moment, I respect him… until he begins to lumber slowly to his feet as I bounce away from him. Weaponless, fighting Mason isn’t something I can do for long – my throat is on fire and I am already weak. His face is determined, almost blank – it’s more frightening than Cato’s glee in killing during the last Games. Mason’s determination is lost to me, though, when I see a flash of blonde and steel behind him – Peeta!

Mason’s face registers only a moment of surprise, as the tip of Peeta’s spear emerges from the enormous career’s throat. Mason gurgles, reaches to touch the bloodied spear tip – almost checking to see if the pain is real, if this – this _death_ – is actually happening.

Peeta lets go of the spear in shock and stares at his hands, clearly amazed.  I fall to my knees as Mason tips to the side, spurting arterial blood, his eyes fixed on my face accusingly.  “I’m sorry,” I whisper. Mason’s face twitches – his brow furrowed accusingly – as he coughs up the last of his blood. “Really. I’m sorry,” I whisper again. His eyes go blank, quiet… The cannon booms, but it sounds miles away in the muffled tunnel of my hearing.

It has been mere moments – seconds of time between life and death – but at the same time, ages. 

I feel the sting of tears in my eyes. They are tears of fury.  Searching for my bow, arrows, and the damn spool of wire, I dig through the bushes as Peeta stands in shock… only two arrows.  Rats.  “Peeta,” I say sharply to snap him out of his abstraction.  “Johanna’s in trouble. Let’s go.” I jam the spool of wire into his hands and motion for him to follow.  He blinks several times, then falls into step behind me, obediently unspooling the wire.

Bow in hand and arrow nocked, I move in the direction of where I last heard Johanna’s cries.  We’re getting closer to the force field, and the darkness is becoming oppressive.  “Johanna?” I call quietly.  “Johanna, where are you?” I scan the brush, but it’s difficult to see.  

I hear a faint rustling in the bushes and turn abruptly, only to see Johanna coming at my head with a rock.

All goes dark. 

*** 

I often wondered how it was, exactly, that I would die. As a child, I thought it would be in the mines of District 12 or of starvation… that’s how most people died.  

Would it hurt?  Or would it be freeing?  Would it be like going to sleep at the end of a long day?  A man who was crushed in a building accident once came to my mother for medical help, but there was nothing she could do. She sat and held his hand, humming quietly as his face turned from the grimace of pain to one of peace. It didn’t look like that for Mason. For Thresh.  For Alex.  For Clove… none of them.   Maybe dying only hurts when you’re young.

Dying is far too painful.

***

It is also too loud.

“Shut the fuck up, Peeta! ” I hear Johanna say.  My arm is on fire, my tongue thick and slow.  “Go get Finnick,” Johanna hisses.  “Go! Before the careers find us!”

I stay motionless, hoping she’ll assume I’m well on my way to dead. 

She shoots off into the woods, leaving me on my back alone near the force field.  Woozy, I drag my tongue over my teeth, feeling the growing scum of not being brushed. I curl onto my side and touch the source of the pain in my arm – it has been carved with a deep knife wound that almost hit bone.  My hands flutter up to my forehead, where a massive lump has started to form. I may be alive, but not by much… Of course they betrayed me, I think furiously.  Cato wanted me to be allies with them, and look at how bloody well that turned out!

Hissed whisper and rustling bushes to my right paralyze me in my rage.  “They’re this way,” I hear someone say.  Barely daring to move my head to see who it is, the flash of teeth in the darkness tells me that it’s Enobaria, Cashmere, and – shit – Onyx.  I stay motionless in the brush, praying that they don’t see me. Johanna didn’t take my bow, but I only have one arrow now… nor do I feel inclined to do Johanna, Finnick, or Peeta any favors by taking them out. 

Enobaria, Cashmere, and Onyx crash up through the bushes towards the mouth of the mine.  I lay quietly, gathering my wits and running a mental check of the rest of my injuries.  Windpipe severely bruised, probably concussion, arm wound that without antibiotics or stitching will probably kill me, severe dehydration, cuts and blisters on hands – negligible.  The child growing inside me? No idea.   I will survive for a little while, but not without water and certainly not without more than one blasted arrow. 

There is only one way to end this. The careers are on their way to the fire ground; Johanna, Finnick, Beetee, and Peeta – _traitors_ , I think darkly – are there, as well.

My anger rises as my fingers curl around my last arrow. The golden filament runs up the hill toward the forest, and a cruelly brilliant idea strikes me. _Fuck all of them_.

Dragging the wire from the force field, I look carefully for its source – the faint, vibrating shimmer that Beetee pointed out in the training facilities. The force field was one thing; the source was another.  Ah ha! Up in the branches of a tree to my left I saw the pulsing vibrations of the force field. Winding the filament around the sharp tip of my one, final arrow.  I nock, pull, and release.

The arrow flies with a stunning accuracy given the tearing pain of my arm.  The force field source explodes into a violent blast, throwing me backwards against a tree, and lights the filament not to the subtle ember that Beetee said it would, but a dangerous electrical blue that zipped up to the fake District 12 and the fire ground.

My head lolls to the side as I look dazedly up the hill.  Within a heartbeat, the entire hill flashes in a white light that sends up arcs of white light to the sky as each and ever force field source for miles releases its power.  The entire arena is lit up with the fireworks of the Capitol's own creation.

The light.  Now _that_ is what I did expect to see when I die.


End file.
